Skip to main content

Full text of "The Oxford book of English mystical verse"

See other formats 


The  Oxford  Book 

of 

English  Mystical  Verse 


The 

Oxford  Book 

Of  English  Mystical 

Verse 


Oxford  University  Press 

London     Edinburgh     Glasgow     New  York 

Toronto     Melbourne     Cape  Town     Bombay 

Humphrey  Milford  M.A.  Publisher  to  the  University 


The  ' 

Oxford  Book 
Of  English  Mystical 
Verse 

Chosen  by 

D.  H.  S.  Nicholson 

and 
A.  H.  E.  Lee 


2 

Oxford 

At  the  Clarendon  Press 
1917 


PRINTED  IN  ENGLAND 
AT  THE  OXFORD  UNIVERSITY 


INTRODUCTION 

IN  the  early  days  of  English  mysticism  the  first 
transition  of  Dionysius'  Mystical  Theology  was 
so  readily  welcomed  that  it  is  said,  in  a  quaintly 
expressive  phrase,  to  have  'run  across  England  like  deere'. 
Since  that  time  the  fortunes  of  mysticism  in  these 
islands  have  been  various,  but,  despite  all  the  chances 
of  repute  and  disrepute  which  it  has  undergone,  there 
has  been  a  continual  undercurrent  of  thought  by  which 
it  has  been  not  only  tolerated  but  welcomed.  There 
have  been,  of  course,  heights  of  enthusiasm  as  well  as 
profound  depths  of  apathy  in  regard  to  it,  but  even  if 
the  limitations  of  the  greatest  enthusiasm  have  always 
been  evident,  so  also  has  been  the  continuing  readiness 
of  some  portion  of  the  religious  consciousness  of  the 
people  to  respond  to  what  has  been  most  vital  in  it. 
It  is,  in  fact,  the  hypothesis  of  mysticism  that  it  is  not 
utterly  without  its  witness  in  any  age,  even  though  the 
voice  of  that  witness  be  lost  in  the  turmoil  of  surround 
ing  things. 

And  now  it  appears — it  has  in  fact  been  appearing  for 
some  years— that  the  fortunes  of  mysticism  are  mending. 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

It  has  emerged  from  the  morass  of  apathy  which 
characterized  the  eighteenth  and  the  greater  part  of 
the  nineteenth  century ;  it  is  reawakening  to  the  value 
of  its  own  peculiar  treasure  of  thought  and  word  :  on 
all  sides  there  are  signs  that  it  is  on  the  verge  of  entering 
into  a  kingdom  of  such  breadth  and  fertility  as  it  has 
perhaps  never  known.  It  is  as  though  the  world  were 
undergoing  a  spiritual  revitalization,  spurring  it  on  to 
experience — even  through  destruction  and  death — a 
further  measure  of  Reality  and  Truth. 

At  such  a  time  it  is  of  interest  to  look  back  over  the 
past  and  discover  something  of  what  has  been  already 
accomplished  in  the  way  of  poetic  expression  of  mystical 
themes  and  feelings.  The  most  essential  part  of  mys 
ticism  cannot,  of  course,  ever  pass  into  expression,  inas 
much  as  it  consists  in  an  experience  which  is  in  the  most 
literal  sense  ineffable.  The  secret  of  the  inmost  sanctuary 
is  not  in  danger  of  profanation,  since  none  but  those 
who  penetrate  into  that  sanctuary  can  understand  it, 
and  those  even  who  penetrate  find,  on  passing  out  again, 
that  their  lips  are  sealed  by  the  sheer  insufficiency  of 
language  as  a  medium  for  conveying  the  sense  of  their 
supreme  adventure.  The  speech  of  every  day  has  no 
terms  for  what  they  have  seen  and  known,  and  least 
of  all  can  they  hope  for  adequate  expression  through 
the  phrases  and  apparatus  of  logical  reasoning.  In 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

despair  of  moulding  the  stubborn  stuff  of  prose  into  a 
form  that  will  even  approximate  to  their  need,  many 
of  them  turn,  therefore,  to  poetry  as  the  medium  which 
will  convey  least  inadequately  some  hint  of  their  ex 
perience.  By  the  rhythm  and  the  glamour  of  their 
verse,  by  its  peculiar  quality  of  suggesting  infinitely 
more  than  it  ever  says  directly,  by  its  very  elasticity, 
they  struggle  to  give  what  hints  they  may  of  the  Reality 
that  is  eternally  underlying  all  things.  And  it  is  pre 
cisely  through  that  rhythm  and  that  glamour  and  the 
high  enchantment  of  their  writing  that  some  rays  gleam 
from  the  Light  which  is  supernal. 

The  ways  in  which  mystical  experience  will  trans 
late  itself  into  such  measure  of  expression  as  is  possible 
must  evidently  vary,  both  in  kind  and  degree,  with  the 
experience  itself.  In  sending  out  this  anthology  we 
have  no  desire  to  venture  on  a  definition  of  what  actually 
constitutes  mysticism  and  what  does  not,  since  such 
an  attempt  would  be  clearly  outside  our  province.  Our 
conception  of  mysticism  must  be  found  in  the  poetry 
we  have  gathered  together.  But  it  may  serve  as  a  ground 
for  comprehension  to  say  that  in  making  our  selection 
we  have  been  governed  by  a  desire  to  include  only  such 
poems  and  extracts  from  poems  as  contain  intimations 
of  a  consciousness  wider  and  deeper  than  the  normal. 
This  is  the  connecting  link  between  them — the  thread, 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

as  it  wejre,  on  which  the  individual  pieces  are  strung. 
It  is  less  a  question  of  a  common  subject  than  of  a  com 
mon  standpoint  and  in  some  sense  a  common  atmo 
sphere,  and  our  attempt  has  been  to  steer  a  middle 
course  between  the  twin  dangers  of  an  uninspired  piety 
on  the  one  hand  and  mere  intellectual  speculation  on 
the  other.  The  claim  to  inclusion  has  in  no  case  been 
that  any  particular  poet  is  of  sufficient  importance  to 
demand  representation  as  such,  but  that  a  poet  of  no 
matter  what  general  rank  has  written  one  or  more  poems 
which  testify  to  the  greater  things  and  at  the  same 
time  reach  a  certain  level  of  expression.  For  similar 
reasons  we  have  not  included  the  work  of  any  poet  when 
there  seemed  no  better  reason  for  so  doing  than  that 
he  was  representative  of  some  particular  period  or  style. 
It  should  be  remembered,  further,  that  this  anthology 
makes  no  claim  to  be  representative  even  of  any  poet 
whose  work  is  included,  since  the  great  mass  of  writing 
by  which  he  or  she  is  commonly  known  may  fall  without 
our  limits,  and  some  little  known  poem  or  poems  may 
have  seemed  to  answer  our  requirements.  The  difficulty 
of  selection  has  of  course  been  greatest  in  the  cases, 
like  that  of  Thomas  Traherne,  where  nearly  all  the  poems 
are  definitely  mystical,  and  it  is  evident  that,  here  and 
elsewhere,  we  have  been  compelled  to  choose  from  among 
many  possible  pieces.  We  cannot,  therefore,  pretend 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

to  have  made  an  exhaustive  collection  of  the  mystical 
poetry  of  the  English  language  or  of  any  poet,  but  hope 
rather  that  our  selections  may  be  found  to  be  adequately 
representative  both  of  the  one  and  the  other. 

Beyond  this  question  of  the  immediate  ground  for 
choice,  it  may  be  well  to  mention  the  limits  we  have 
set  ourselves  in  other  directions.  We  have  felt  it 
desirable  to  admit  any  poetry  written  in  English,  from 
whatever  country  the  poet  may  have  hailed,  as  well 
as  any  native  poetry  written  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland 
in  some  other  tongue  than  English,  and  subsequently 
translated.  Thus  translations  from  any  European 
language  have  been  excluded,  often  with  very  great 
regret,  but  translations  from  the  Gaelic  have  been 
gladly  admitted.  In  point  of  time  we  have  set  ourselves 
no  limits,  but  have  rather  sought  to  show  that  the  torch 
of  the  Inner  Light  has  been  handed  down  from  age 
to  age  until  the  present  day,  when,  as  we  believe, 
the  world  is  near  to  a  spiritual  vitalization  hitherto 
unimagined. 

We  offer  our  sincere  thanks  to  the  following  authors 
for  permission  to  include  their  own  poems : 

Mr.  Lascelles  Abercrombie,  Mrs.  de  Bary  (Anna 
Bunston),  Mr.  Clifford  Bax,  the  Dean  of  Norwich  (Dr. 
H.  C.  Beeching),  Mr.  A.  C.  Benson,  Mr.  F.  W.  Bourdillon, 


x  INTRODUCTION 

Mr.  F.  G.  Bowles,  Miss  A.  M.  Buckton  (for  two  poems 
from  Songs  of  Joy),  Mr.  Bliss  Carman,  Mr.  Edward 
Carpenter,  Miss  Amy  Clarke,  Mr.  Aleister  Crowley, 
Dr.  W.  J.  Dawson,  Mrs.  Margaret  Deland,  Mr.  E.  J. 
Ellis,  Mr.  Darrell  Figgis,  Mr.  H.  E.  Goad,  Mr.  Edmund 
Gosse,  Father  John  Gray,  Miss  Emily  Hickey,  Mrs.  K. 
Tynan  Hinkson,  Mr.  E.  G.  A.  Holmes,  Mr.  Paul  Hookham, 
Miss  G.  M.  Hort,  Mr.  Laurence  Housman,  Mrs.  H.  E. 
Hamilton  King,  Mr.  John  Masefield,  Mr.  Eugene  Mason, 
Mrs.  Stuart  Moore  (Miss  Evelyn  Underhill),  Mr.  Henry 
Newbolt  (for  his  own  poem  from  Poems  New  and  Old, 
published  by  Mr.  John  Murray,  and  for  Miss  Mary 
Coleridge's  work  from  Poems,  published  by  Mr.  Elkin 
Mathews),  Mr.  Alfred  Noyes,  Mr.  John  Oxenham, 
Mr.  James  Rhoades,  Sir  Rennell  Rodd,  Mr.  G.  W. 
Russell  ('A.  E.'),  Mr.  G.  Santayana,  Mr.  R.  A.  E. 
Shepherd,  Mr.  Arthur  Symons,  Mr.  Herbert  Trench, 
Mr.  Samuel  Waddington,  Mr.  A.  E.  Waite,  the  Rev. 
F.  W.  Orde  Ward,  and  Mr.  W.  L.  Wilmhurst  (for  his 
own  poems  and,  as  editor  of  The  Seeker,  for  confirming 
Mr.  Goad's  permission). 

We  are  further  indebted  for  a  similar  courtesy  to 
many  publishers  and  private  owners  of  copyrights,  of 
whom  the  full  list  follows : 

The  editor  of  the  Academy  for  confirming  the  per 
mission  given  by  Miss  Hort ;  Messrs.  George  Allen  & 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

Unwin  for  two  poems  from  The  Mockers  by  Miss  Bar 
low,  and  for  the  text  of  Richard  Rolle's  poem  from 
Dr.  Horstmann's  edition  of  his  works ;  Messrs.  Angus 
&  Robertson  of  Sydney  for  a  poem  from  At  Dawn 
and  Dusk  by  Mr.  V.  J.  Daley ;  Messrs.  Appleton  &  Co. 
for  three  of  the  poems  by  Walt  Whitman  ;  Mr.  Edward 
Arnold  for  confirming  the  permission  given  by  Sir 
Rennell  Rodd  ;  Messrs.  G.  Bell  &  Sons  for  Coventry 
Patmore ;  Mr.  Mackenzie  Bell  for  A.  C.  Swinburne ; 
Mr.  B.  H.  Blackwell  for  the  work  of  the  Rev.  A.  S. 
Cripps,  Mr.  W.  R.  Childe,  and  Mr.  J.  S.  Muirhead  ; 
Messrs.  Blackwood  &  Sons  for  confirming  the  per 
mission  given  by  Mr.  Noyes  for  poems  from  his  Col 
lected  Works-,  Mr.  Robert  Bridges  for  Father  Gerard 
Hopkins;  Mr.  A.  H.  Bullen  for  Mr.  Horace  Holley; 
Messrs.  Burns  &  Oates  for  Mgr.  R.  H.  Benson,  Mr. 
J.  C.  Earle,  Hon.  Mrs.  Lindsay,  Mrs.  Meynell,  Father  J.  B. 
Tabb,  and  Francis  Thompson  ;  the  late  Lady  Victoria 
Buxton  for  the  Hon.  Roden  Noel;  Messrs.  Chatto  & 
Windus  for  George  MacDonald  and  for  confirming 
Miss  Jay's  permission  for  Robert  Buchanan's  work  ;  Mr. 
W.  H.  Chesson  for  Mrs.  Chesson ;  the  Clarendon  Press 
for  its  texts  of  Donne,  Herrick,  and  Vaughan ;  Messrs. 
Constable  &  Co.  for  George  Meredith  (by  permission 
of  Constable  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  London,  and  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  New  York),  for  confirming  Mr.  E.  G.  A. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

Holmes's  permission  and  for  Mr.  Harold  Monro ;  Mrs.P.L. 
Deacon  for  A.  W.  E.  O'Shaughnessy ;  Messrs.  J.  M. 
Dent  &  Sons  for  Mr.  G.  K.  Chesterton ;  Mr.  Stephen 
de  Vere  for  Aubrey  de  Vere  ;  Messrs.  P.  J.  &  A.  E. 
Dobell  for  Thomas  Traherne  (printed  here  from  Mr. 
Bertram  DobelPs  modernized  text) ;  Mrs.  Dowden  for 
Edward  Dowden  (including  the  poem  '  Love's  Lord  ' 
from  A  Woman? s  Reliquary) ;  the  Very  Reverend  Mother 
Provincial  O.S.D.  for  Augusta  Theodosia  Drane  ;  Messrs. 
Duffield  &  Co.  for  Mrs.  Elsa  Barker  ;  the  Early  English 
Text  Society  for  the  text  of  Quia  Amore  Langueo\  Mr. 
H.  J.  Glaisher  as  literary  executor  for  Mr.  G.  Barlow  ; 
Canon  Greenwell  for  Miss  Dora  Greenwell ;  Messrs. 
Heinemann  for  '  The  Soul's  Prayer  '  and  *  In  S-alutation 
to  the  Eternal  Peace  ',  from  The  Bird  of  Time  by  Sarojini 
Nayadu,  London,  Heinemann,  and  for  '  To  a  Buddha 
seated  on  a  Lotus '  from  The  Golden  Threshold  by 
Sarojini  Nayadu,  London,  Heinemann ;  Mrs.  Henley  for 
W.  E.  Henley;  the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for  poems 
by  Mr.  H.  B.  Carpenter,  Mr.  C.  P.  Cranch,  and  Miss 
E.  M.  Thomas ;  Miss  Harriett  Jay  for  Robert  Buchanan  ; 
Messrs.  Kegan  Paul  &  Co.  for  Archbishop  Alexander,  Sir 
Edwin  Arnold,  P.  J.  Bailey,  and  A.  Gurney,  as  well  as  for 
confirming  the  permission  given  by  Mrs.  Hamilton  King  ; 
Mr.  John  Lane  for  Richard  le  Gallienne  and  for  '  The 
Immortal  Hour '  from  Poems  by  Mrs.  R.  A.  Taylor 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

and  for  confirming  permissions  given  by  Mr.  Lascelles 
Abercrombie,Mr.A.  C.  Benson,  and  Mr.  James  Rhoades; 
Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.  for  poems  by  F.  W.  H. 
Myers  and  Miss  E.  Gore  Booth ;  Messrs.  Lothrop,  Lee 
&  Shepard  Co.  for  D.  A.  Wasson ;  Messrs.  Mac- 
millan  &  Co.  for  T.  E.  Brown,  Mrs.  D.  M.  Craik 
(Miss  Mulock),  Christina  Rossetti,  Lord  Tennyson,  and 
Mrs.  Fraser-Tytler,-and  for  confirming  the  permission 
given  by  Mr.  G.  W.  Russell;  Mr.  Elkin  Mathews  for 
Miss  May  Probyn,  Mrs.  R.  A.  Taylor,  and  the  Rev.  A.  S. 
Cripps  ('  The  Death  of  St.  Francis ')  ;  Messrs.  Maunsel 
&  Co.  for  Mr.  J.  H.  Cousins,  Miss  S.  L.  Mitchell, 
J.  M.  Plunkett,  and  Mr.  James  Stephens ;  Messrs. 
Methuen  &  Co.  for  Oscar  Wilde;  Lady  Miller  for 
Sir  Alfred  Lyall ;  Mr.  Arthur  Morris  for  Sir  Lewis 
Morris ;  Mr.  Eveleigh  Nash  for  Michael  Field  ;  Messrs. 
James  Nisbet  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  for  Frances  Ridley  Havergal ; 
the  Rev.  Conrad  Noel  for  concurring  in  permission  for  the 
Hon.  Roden  Noel ;  The  Page  Company  for  confirming 
Mr.  Bliss  Carman's  permission;  Mr.  Herbert  Paul  for 
D.  M.  Dolben ;  Messrs.  Putnam's  Sons  for  '  Sibylline  ' 
from  Madison  Cawein's  Intimations  of  the  Beautiful, 
and  for  Mr.  C.  A.  Walworth;  Messrs.  Routledge  for 
P.  J.  Bailey  and  for  confirming  the  permission  given  by 
Lady  Miller  ;  Mr.  Duncan  C.  Scott  for  Archibald  Lamp- 
man  ;  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Sharp  for  William  Sharp  (Fiona 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

Macleod) ;  Mr.  Clement  Shorter  for  Mrs.  D.  S.  Shorter ; 
Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  for  two  poems  from 
The  Poet,  the  Fool  and  the  Faeries  by  Madison  Cawein ; 
Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.  for  J.  A.  Symonds ;  the 
editor  of  the  Spectator  for  confirming  Mr.  F.  W.  Bour- 
dillon's  permission ;  Mr.  Fisher  Unwin  for  poems  from 
Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats's  Poems  and  The  Secret  Rose,  and 
from  the  Collected  Poems  of  Mrs.  Duclaux,  and  for 
Mr.  C.  Weekes  ;  Mr.  A.  S.  Walker  for  J.  S.  Blackie ;  and 
Mr.  J.  M.  Watkins  for  Miss  C.  M.  Verschoyle. 

This  completes  the  record  of  our  indebtedness.  We 
would  simply  add  an  expression  of  our  regret  that  it 
has  been  impossible  to  obtain  permission  to  include 
any  of  Sidney  Lanier's  writing,  owing  to  copyright 
restrictions.  But  if  we  cannot  reprint  '  A  Ballad  of 
Trees  and  the  Master  ',  which  is  the  chief  object  of  our 
regret,  we  can  at  least  point  to  it  as  deserving  inclusion 
in  any  such  anthology  as  the  present,  and  we  can  further 
draw  attention  to  such  other  poems  as  *  The  Marshes 
of  Glynn  '  and  '  A  Florida  Sunday  '.  We  would  gladly 
have  included  all  these  and  even  more,  but  we  must 
now  content  ourselves  with  this  mention  of  them.  It 
is  with  equal  regret  that  we  offer  a  mere  extract  from 
George  Meredith's  '  Outer  and  Inner ',  but  in  his  case 
the  rules  now  laid  down  for  quotation  from  his  poems 
make  it  impossible  to  do  him  justice. 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

There  are  a  very  few  poems  the  copyright-holders  of 
which  we  have  been  unable  to  discover  or  to  trace  in 
spite  of  repeated  efforts.  To  these  unknown  owners 
of  treasure  we  would  offer  our  acknowledgements  and 
our  apologies,  as  to  those,  if  any,  whose  claims  we  have 
unknowingly  overlooked. 

D.  H.  S.  NICHOLSON. 
A.  H.  E.  LEE. 


ANONYMOUS 

Date  unknown 

Amergin 

I  AM  the  wind  which  breathes  upon  the  sea, 
I  am  the  wave  of  the  ocean, 

I  am  the  murmur  of  the  billows, 

I  am  the  ox  of  the  seven  combats, 

I  am  the  vulture  upon  the  rocks, 

I  am  a  beam  of  the  sun, 

I  am  the  fairest  of  plants, 

I  am  a  wild  boar  in  valour, 

I  am  a  salmon  in  the  water, 

I  am  a  lake  in  the  plain, 

I  am  a  word  of  science, 

I  am  the  point  of  the  lance  in  battle, 

I  am  the  God  who  creates  in  the  head  the  fire. 
Who  is  it  who  throws  light  into  the  meeting  on  the 

mountain  ? 

Who  announces  the  ages  of  the  moon  ? 
Who  teaches  the  place  where  couches  the  sun  ? 

RICHARD  ROLLE  OF  HAMPOLE 

12907-1349 
Love  is  Life 

i 

E'F  es  lyf  J?at  lastes  ay,  ]?ar  it  in  Criste  es  feste, 
For  wele  ne  wa  it  chaunge  may,  a  Is  wryten  has  men 
wyseste. 

pe  nyght  it  tournes  in  til  )?e  day,  \\  trauel  in  tyll  reste ; 
If  Ipou  wil  luf  ]?us  as  I  say,  j?ou  may  be  wyth  J?e  beste. 
>ar]  when  feste]  fastened  trauel]  toil 


2  RICHARD  ROLLE  OF  HAMPOLE 

ii 

Lufe  es  thoght,  wyth  grete  desyre,  of  a  fayre  louyng ; 
Lufe  I  lyken  til  a  fyre  J?at  sloken  may  na  thyng  ; 
Lufe  vs  clenses  of  oure  syn,  lufe  vs  bote  sail  bryng ; 
Lufe  )?e  keynges  hert  may  wyn,  lufe  of  ioy  may  syng. 

in 

pe  settel  of  lufe  es  lyft  hee,  for  in  til  heuen  it  ranne ; 
Me  thynk  in  erth  it  es  sle,  pat  makes  men  pale  and  wanne. 
pe  bede  of  blysse  it  gase  ful  nee,  I  tel  )?e  as  I  kanne, 
pof  vs  thynk  J?e  way  be  dregh ;  luf  copuls  god  &  manne. 

IV 

Lufe  es  hatter  ]?en  j?e  cole,  lufe  may  nane  be-swyke  ; 
pe  flawme  of  lufe  wha  myght  it  thole,  if  it  war  ay  I-lyke  ? 
Luf  vs  comf ortes,  &  mase  in  qwart,  &  lyf tes  tyl  heuen-ryke ; 
Luf  rauysches  Cryste  in  tylowr  hert,  I  wate  na  lustitlyke. 

v 

Lere  to  luf,  if  ]?ou  wyl  lyfe  when  )?ou  sail  hethen  fare. 
All  YI  thoght  til  hym  J?ou  gyf,  j?at  may  |?e  kepe  fra  kare  ; 
Loke  J?i  hert  fra  hym  noght  twyn,  if  )?ou  in  wandreth  ware, 
Sa  ]?ou  may  hym  welde  &  wyn  and  luf  hym  euer-mare. 

VI 

Ihesu  J?at  me  lyfe  hase  lent,  In  til  J?i  lufe  me  bryng, 
Take  til  ]?e  al  myne  entent,  J?at  j?ow  be  my  3hernyng. 
Wa  fra  me  away  war  went  &  comne  war  my  couytyng, 
If  |?at  my  sawle  had  herd  &  hent  J?e  sang  of  J?i  louyng. 


louyng]  object  of  love,  beloved  sloken]  quench  bote] 

remedy  settel]  seat  lyft]  lifted  hee]  high  sle]  deceit 
ful  ?  bede]  bed  ?  nee]  nigh  J>of]  Though  dregh]  long 
hatter]  hotter  be-swyke]  deceive  thole]  bear  I-lyke] 
the  same  mase  in  qwart]  makes  healthy  heuen-ryke] 

heaven's  kingdom  lust]  desire  Lere]  Learn  hethen] 
hence  twyn]  separate  in  wandreth  ware]  shouldst  be 

in  trouble  welde]  possess  lent]  given  jhernyng] 

desire  hent]  grasped,  apprehended 


RICHARD  ROLLE  OF  HAMPOLE  3 

VII 

pi  lufe  es  ay  lastand,  fra  J?at  we  may  it  fele  : 
pare-in  make  me  byrnand,  }?at  na  thyng  gar  it  kele. 
My  thoght  take  in  to  ]?i  hand,  &  stabyl  it  ylk  a  dele, 
pat  I  be  noght  heldand  to  luf  J?is  worldes  wele. 

VIII 

If  I  lufe  any  erthly  thyng  ]?at  payes  to  my  wyll, 
&  settes  my  ioy  &  my  lykyng  when  it  may  com  me  tyll, 
I  mai  drede  of  partyng,  |?at  wyll  be  hate  and  yll : 
For  al  my  welth  es  bot  wepyng,  whenxpyne  mi  saule  sal 
spyll. 

IX 

pe  ioy  )?at  men  hase  sene,  es  lyckend  tyl  J?e  haye, 
pat  now  es  fayre  &  grene,  and  now  wytes  awaye. 
Swylk  es  }ns  worlde,  I  wene,  &  bees  till  domes-daye, 
All  in  trauel  &  tene,  fle  bat  na  man  it  maye. 

x 

If  ])ou  luf  in  all  bi  thoght,  and  hate  be  fylth  of  syn, 
And  gyf  hym  bi  sawle  ]7at  it  boght,  bat  he  be  dwell  with-in : 
Als  Crist  bi  sawle  hase  soght  &  ber-of  walde  noght  blyn, 
Sa  bou  sal  to  blys  be  broght,  &  heuen  won  with-in. 

XI 

pe  kynd  of  luf  es  bis,  bar  it  es  trayst  and  trew : 
To  stand  styll  in  stabylnes,  &  chaunge  it  for  na  new. 
pe  lyfe  ]?at  lufe  myght  fynd  or  euer  in  hert  it  knew, 
Fra  kare  it  tomes  bat  kyend,  &  lendes  in  myrth  &  glew. 

fra  ]>at]  from  the  time  that  gar  it  kele]  may  cause  it 

to  cool        ylk  a  dele]  every  whit,  completely  [lit.  every  one  part] 
heldand]  inclined  payes  to]  pleases  hate]  grievous 

pyne]  pain  spyll]  destroy          haye]  grass  ready  for  mowing 

wytes]  passes         Swylk]  such      '  tene]  affliction         J>at  .  . .  it] 
which  blyn]  cease          won]  dwell        kynd]  nature,  quality 

J>ar]  when  trayst]  faithful  J>e  lyfe]  The  man,  the  soul 

kyend]  nature,  quality  lendes]  places  glew]  joy 


4  RICHARD  ROLLE  OF  HAMPOLE 

XII 

For  now  lufe  J7ow,  I  rede,  Cryste,  as  I  J?e  tell : 

And  with  aungels  take  ]?i  stede — ]?at  ioy  loke  J?ou  noght 

sell! 

In  erth  }?ow  hate,  I  rede,  all  |?at  |;i  lufe  may  fell : 
For  luf  es  stalworth  as  J?e  dede,  luf  es  hard  as  hell. 

XIII 

Luf  es  a  lyght  byrthen,  lufe  gladdes  3ong  and  aide, 
Lufe  es  with-owten  pyne,  als  lofers  hase  me  talde ; 
Lufe  es  a  gastly  wynne,  J?at  makes  men  bygge  &  balde, 
Of  lufe  sal  he  na  thyng  tyne  ]?at  hit  in  hert  will  halde. 

XIV 

Lufe  es  ]?e  swettest  thyng  |?at  man  in  erth  hase  tane, 
Lufe  es  goddes  derlyng,  lufe  byndes  blode  &  bane. 
In  lufe  be  owre  lykyng,  Ine  wate  na  better  wane, 
For  me  &  my  lufyng  lufe  makes  bath  be  ane. 

xv 

Bot  fleschly  lufe  sal  fare  as  dose  )?e  flowre  in  may, 
And  lastand  be  na  mare  J?an  ane  houre  of  a  day, 
And  sythen  syghe  ful  sare  ]?ar  lust,  )?ar  pride,  }?ar  play, 
When  bai  er  casten  in  kare,  til  pyne  J?at  lastes  ay. 

XVI 

When  |?air  bodys  lyse  in  syn,  bair  sawls  mai  qwake  &  drede: 
For  vp  sal  ryse  al  men,  and  answer  for  bair  dede ; 
If  bai  be  fonden  in  syn,  als  now  bair  lyfe  bai  lede, 
pai  sail  sytt  hel  within,  &  myrknes  hafe  to  mede. 

For  now]  Therefore         rede]  advise          stede]  place          fell] 
abate          J>e  dede]  death  gastly]  spiritual         wynne]  wine 

bygge]  strong  tyne]  lose  wane]  dwelling  sythen] 

afterwards         syghe]  lament  myrknes]  darkness 


I 

RICHARD  ROLLE  OF  HAMPOLE  5 

XVII 

Riche  men  J?air  handes  sal  wryng,  &  wicked  werkes  sal  by 
In    flawme  of   fyre  bath  knyght  &  keyng,  with  sorow 

schamfully. 

If  J?ou  wil  lufe,  ban  may  bou  syng  til  Cryst  in  melody, 
pe  lufe  of  hym  ouercoms  al  thyng,  J?arto  J>ou  traiste  trewly. 

XVIII 

[I]  sygh  &  sob,  bath  day  &  nyght,  for  ane  sa  fayre  of  hew. 
par  es  na  thyng  my  hert  mai  light,  bot  lufe,  bat  es  ay  new. 
Wha  sa  had  hym  in  his  syght,  or  in  his  hert  hym  knew, 
His  mournyng  turned  til  ioy  ful  bryght,  his  sang  in  til  glew. 

XIX 

In  myrth  he  lyfes,  nyght  &  day,  j?at  lufes  J>at  swete  chylde : 
It  es  Ihesu,  forsoth  I  say,  of  all  mekest  &  mylde. 
Wreth  fra  hym  walde  al  a-way,  bof  he  wer  neuer  sa  wylde  ; 
He  J?at  in  hert  lufed  hym,  )?at  day  fra  euel  he  wil  hym 

schylde. 

xx 

Of  Ihesu  mast  lyst  me  speke,  bat  al  my  bale  may  bete. 
Me  thynk  my  hert  may  al  to-breke,  when  I  thynk  on  J?at 

swete. 

In  lufe  lacyd  he  hase  my  thoght,  j?at  I  sal  neuer  forgete  : 
Ful  dere  me  thynk  he  hase  me  boght,  with  blodi  hende 

&  fete. 

XXI 

For  luf  my  hert  es  bowne  to  brest,  when  I  bat  faire  behalde. 
Lufe  es  fair  bare  it  es  fest,  J^at  neuer  will  be  calde. 
Lufe  vs  reues  be  nyght  rest,  in  grace  it  makes  vs  balde  ; 
Of  al  warkes  luf  es  be  best,  als  haly  men  me  talde. 

by]  pay  dearly  for  hew]  form,  aspect  turned] 

would  turn  Wreth]  Anger  Jx>f]  though  bale] 

woe  bete]  amend  lacyd]  caught  hende]  hands 

bowne  to  brest]  ready  to  burst  reues]  bereaves 


6  RICHARD  ROLLE  OF  HAMPOLE 

XXII 

Na  wonder  gyf  I  syghand  be  &  si)?en  in  sorow  be  sette  : 
Ihesu  was  nayled  apon  J?e  tre,  &  al  blody  for-bette  ; 
To  |?ynk  on  hym  es  grete  pyte,  how  tenderly  he  grette — 
pis  hase  he  sufferde,  man,  for  J?e,  if  ]?at  ]?ou  syn  wyll  lette. 

XXIII 

pare  es  na  tonge  in  erth  may  tell  of  lufe  j?e  swetnesse  ; 
pat  stedfastly  in  lufe  kan  dwell,  his  ioy  es  endlesse. 
God  schylde  J?at  he  sulde  til  hell  J?at  lufes  &  langand  es, 
Or  euer  his  enmys  sulde  hym  qwell,  or  make  his  luf  be 
lesse  ! 

XXIV 

Ihesu  es  lufe  j;at  lastes  ay :  til  hym  es  owre  langyng  ; 
Ihesu  ]?e  nyght  turnes  to  ]?e  day,  J?e  dawyng  in  til  spryng. 
Ihesu,  J?ynk  on  vs,  now  &  ay :  for  )?e  we  halde  oure  keyng ; 
Ihesu,  gyf  vs  grace,  as  J?ou  wel  may,  to  luf  ]?e  with-owten 
endyng. 

ANONYMOUS 

?  i.fjth  century 

Quia  Amore  Langueo 

IN  the  vaile  of  restles  mynd 
I  sowght  in  mownteyn  &  in  mede, 
trustyng  a  treulofe  for  to  fynd  : 
vpon  an  hyll  than  toke  I  hede  ; 
a  voise  I  herd  (and  nere  I  yede) 

in  gret  dolour  complaynyng  tho, 
'  see,  dere  soule,  my  sydes  blede 
Quia  amore  langueo.' 

for-bette]  scourged  grette]  wept  lette]  leave 

sulde]  should  [go]          qwell]  destroy,  slay  dawyng]  dawn 

spryng]  day-spring          nere]  nearer          yede]  went 


ANONYMOUS 

Vpon  thys  mownt  I  fand  a  tree  ; 
vndir  thys  tree  a  man  sittyng ; 
from  hede  to  fote  wowndyd  was  he, 
hys  hert  blode  I  saw  bledyng ; 
A  semely  man  to  be  a  kyng, 

A  graciose  face  to  loke  vnto. 
I  askyd  hym  how  he  had  paynyng. 
he  said,  '  Quia  amore  langueo  S 

I  am  treulove  that  fals  was  neuer  ; 

my  sistur,  mannys  soule,  I  loued  hyr  thus  ; 
By-cause  I  wold  on  no  wyse  disseuere, 
I  left  my  kyngdome  gloriouse  ; 
I  purueyd  hyr  a  place  full  preciouse  ; 
she  flytt,  I  folowyd,  I  luffed  her  soo 
that  I  suffred  thes  paynes  piteuouse 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

My  faire  love  and  my  spouse  bryght, 

I  saued  hyr  fro  betyng,  and  she  hath  me  bett ; 
I  clothed  hyr  in  grace  and  heuenly  lyght, 
this  blody  surcote  she  hath  on  me  sett ; 
for  langyng  love  ;  I  will  not  lett 

swete  strokys  be  thes,  loo  ; 
I  haf  loued  euer  als  I  hett, 

Quia  amore  langueo. 
I  crownyd  hyr  with  blysse  and  she  me  with  thorne, 

I  led  hyr  to  chambre  and  she  me  to  dye ; 
I  browght  hyr  to  worship  and  she  me  to  skorne, 
I  dyd  hyr  reuerence  and  she  me  velanye. 
To  love  that  loueth  is  no  maistrye, 

hyr  hate  made  neuer  my  love  hyr  foo  ; 
ask  than  no  moo  questions  whye, 
but  Quia  amore  langueo. 

hett]  promised 


8  ANONYMOUS 

Loke  vnto  myn  handys,  man  ! 

th.es  gloues  were  geuen  me  whan  I  hyr  sowght ; 
they  be  nat  white,  but  rede  and  wan, 

embrodred  with  blode  my  spouse  them  bowght ; 
they  wyll  not  of,  I  lefe  them  nowght, 

I  wowe  hyr  with  them  where  euer  she  goo  ; 
thes  handes  full  frendly  for  hyr  fowght, 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

Maruell  not,  man,  thof  I  sitt  styll, 

my  love  hath  shod  me  wondyr  strayte  ; 
she  boklyd  my  fete  as  was  hyr  wyll 

with  sharp  nailes,  well  thow  maist  waite  ! 
in  my  love  was  neuer  dissaite, 

for  all  my  membres  I  haf  opynd  hyr  to  ; 
my  body  I  made  hyr  hertys  baite, 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

In  my  syde  I  haf  made  hyr  nest, 

loke,  in  me  how  wyde  a  wound  is  here  ! 
this  is  hyr  chambre,.here  shall  she  rest, 
that  she  and  I  may  slepe  in  fere, 
here  may  she  wasshe,  if  any  filth  were ; 

here  is  socour  for  all  hyr  woo  ; 
cum  if  she  will,  she  shall  haf  chere, 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

I  will  abide  till  she  be  redy, 

I  will  to  hyr  send  or  she  sey  nay ; 
If  she  be  rechelesse  I  will  be  gredi, 
If  she  be  dawngerouse  I  will  hyr  pray. 
If  she  do  wepe,  than  byd  I  nay  ; 

myn  armes  ben  spred  to  clypp  hyr  to  ; 
crye  onys,  '  I  cum  !  '   now,  soule,  assaye  ! 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

waite]   take   heed  baite]    enticement,    nourishment 

in  fere]   together  dawngerouse]  difficult  of     approach, 

haughty 


ANONYMOUS  9 

I  sitt  on  an  hille  for  to  se  farre, 

I  loke  to  the  vayle,  my  spouse  I  see  ; 
now  rynneth  she  away  ward,  now  cummyth  she  narre, 
yet  fro  myn  eye  syght  she  may  nat  be ; 
sum  waite  ther  pray,  to  make  hyr  flee, 

I  rynne  tofore  to  chastise  hyr  foo  ; 
recouer,  my  soule,  agayne  to  me, 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

My  swete  spouse,  will  we  goo  play  ? 

apples  ben  rype  in  my  gardine ; 
I  shall  clothe  the  in  new  array, 
thy  mete  shall  be  mylk,  honye,  &  wyne ; 
now,  dere  soule,  latt  us  go  dyne, 

thy  sustenance  is  in  my  skrypp,  loo  ! 
tary  not  now,  fayre  spouse  myne, 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

Yf  thow  be  fowle,  I  shall  make  thee  clene, 

if  thow  be  seke,  I  shall  the  hele  ; 
yf  thow  owght  morne,  I  shall  be-mene  ; 

spouse,  why  will  thow  nowght  with  me  dele  ? 
thow  fowndyst  neuer  love  so  lele  ; 

what  wilt  thow,  sowle,  that  I  shall  do  ? 
I  may  of  vnkyndnes  the  appele, 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

What  shall  I  do  now  with  my  spouse  ? 

abyde  I  will  hyre  iantilnesse  ; 
wold  she  loke  onys  owt  of  hyr  howse 
of  flesshely  affeccions  and  vnclennesse  ; 
hyr  bed  is  made,  hyr  bolstar  is  in  blysse, 

hyr  chambre  is  chosen,  suche  ar  no  moo ; 
loke  owt  at  the  wyndows  of  kyndnesse, 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

farre]  farther  narre]  nearer 

B3 


io  ANONYMOUS 

Long  and  love  thow  neuer  so  hygh, 

yit  is  my  love  more  than  thyfi  may  be  ; 
thow  gladdyst,  thow  wepist,  I  sitt  the  bygh, 
yit  myght  thow,  spouse,  loke  onys  at  me  ! 
spouse,  shuld  I  alway  fede  the 

with  childys  mete  ?   nay,  love,  nat  so  ! 
I  pray  the,  love,  with  aduersite, 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

My  spouse  is  in  chambre,  hald  }oure  pease ! 

make  no  noyse,  but  lat  hyr  slepe  ; 
my  babe  shall  sofre  noo  disease, 

I  may  not  here  my  dere  childe  wepe, 
for  with  my  pappe  I  shall  hyr  kepe  ; 
no  wondyr  thowgh  I  tend  hyr  to, 
thys  hoole  in  my  side  had  neuer  ben  so  depe, 
but  Quia  amore  langueo. 

Wax  not  wery,  myn  owne  dere  wyfe  ! 

what  mede  is  aye  to  lyffe  in  comfort  ? 
for  in  tribulacion,  I  ryfi  more  ryfe 
ofter  tymes  than  in  disport ; 
In  welth,  in  woo,  euer  I  support ; 

than,  dere  soule,  go  neuer  me  fro  ! 
thy  mede  is  markyd,  whan  thow  art  mort, 
in  blysse  ;    Quia  amore  langueo. 


II 


ROBERT  SOUTHWELL 

? 1561-1595 
/  dye  alive 

OLIFE  !   what  letts  thee  from  a  quicke  decease  ? 
O  death  !  what  drawes  thee  from  a  present  praye? 
My  feast  is  done,  my  soule  would  be  at  ease, 
My  grace  is  saide  ;   O  death  !  come  take  awaye. 

I  live,  but  such  a  life  as  ever  dyes ; 

I  dye,  but  such  a  death  as  never  endes  ; 
My  death  to  end  my  dying  life  denyes, 

And  life  my  living  death  no  whitt  amends. 

Thus  still  I  dye,  yet  still  I  do  revive  ; 

My  living  death  by  dying  life  is  fedd  ; 
Grace  more  then  nature  kepes  my  hart  alive, 

Whose  idle  hopes  and  vayne  desires  are  deade. 

Not  where  I  breath,  but  where  I  love,  I  live  ; 

Not  where  I  love,  but  where  I  am,  I  die  ; 
The  life  I  wish,  must  future  glory  give, 

The  deaths  I  feele  in  present  daungers  lye. 


Of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  of  the  Aulter 

r~T^HE  angells'  eyes,  whome  veyles  cannot  deceive, 
1  Might  best  disclose  that  best  they  do  descerne; 
Men  must  with  sounde  and  silent  faith  receive 

More  then  they  can  by  sence  or  reason  lerne  ; 
God's  poure  our  proofes,  His  workes  our  witt  exceede, 
The  doer's  might  is  reason  of  His  deede. 


12  ROBERT  SOUTHWELL 

A  body  is  endew'd  with  ghostly  rightes  ; 

And  Nature's  worke  from  Nature's  law  is  free  ; 
In  heavenly  sunne  lye  hidd  eternall  lightes, 

Lightes  cleere  and  neere,  yet  them  no  eye  can  see  ; 
Dedd  formes  a  never-dyinge  life  do  shroude  ; 
A  boundlesse  sea  lyes  in  a  little  cloude. 

The  God  of  hoastes  in  slender  hoste  doth  dwell, 
Yea,  God  and  man  with  all  to  ether  dewe, 

That  God  that  rules  the  heavens  and  rifled  hell, 
That  man  whose  death  did  us  to  life  renewe  : 

That  God  and  man  that  is  the  angells'  blisse, 

In  forme  of  bredd  and  wyne  our  nurture  is. 

Whole  may  His  body  be  in  smallest  breadd, 

Whole  in  the  whole,  yea  whole  in  every  crumme  ; 

With  which  be  one  or  be  tenn  thowsand  fedd, 
All  to  ech  one,  to  all  but  one  doth  cumme ; 

And  though  ech  one  as  much  as  all  receive, 

Not  one  too  much,  nor  all  too  little  have. 

One  soule  in  man  is  all  in  everye  part ; 

One  face  at  once  in  many  mirrhors  shynes ; 
One  fearefull  noyse  doth  make  a  thowsand  start ; 

One  .eye  at  once  of  countlesse  thinges  defynes  ; 
If  proofes  of  one  in  many,  Nature  frame, 
God  may  in  straunger  sort  performe  the  same. 

God  present  is  at  once  in  everye  place, 

Yett  God  in  every  place  is  ever  one  ; 
So  may  there  be  by  giftes  of  ghostly  grace, 

One  man  in  many  roomes,  yett  filling  none  ; 
Sith  angells  may  effects  of  bodyes  shewe, 
God  angells'  giftes  on  bodyes  may  bestowe. 


13 

HENRY  CONSTABLE 

?  1562-?  1613 

To  the  Blessed  Sacrament 

WHEN  thee  (O  holy  sacrificed  Lambe) 
In  severed  sygnes  I  whyte  and  liquide  see, 
As  on  thy  body  slayne  I  thynke  on  thee, 
Which  pale  by  sheddyng  of  thy  bloode  became. 

And  when  agayne  I  doe  behold  the  same 
Vayled  in  whyte  to  be  receav'd  of  mee, 
Thou  seemest  in  thy  syndon  wrapt  to  bee 
Lyke  to  a  corse,  whose  monument  I  am. 

Buryed  in  me,  vnto  my  sowle  appeare, 

Pryson'd  in  earth,  and  bannisht  from  thy  syght, 

Lyke  our  forefathers  who  in  lymbo  were, 

Cleere  thou  my  thoughtes,  as  thou  did'st  gyve  them  light, 

And  as  thou  others  freed  from  purgyng  fyre 

Quenche  in  my  hart  the  flames  of  badd  desyre. 


JOSHUA  SYLVESTER 

1563-1618 

The  Father 

A.PHA  and  Omega,  God  alone  : 
Eloi,  My  God,  the  Holy-One  ; 
Whose  Power  is  Omnipotence  : 
Whose  Wisedome  is  Omni-science  : 
Whose  Beeing  is  All  Soveraigne  Blisse  : 
Whose  Worke  Perfection's  Fulnesse  is ; 

Under  All  things,  not  under-cast ; 
Over  All  things,  not  over-plac't ; 


14  JOSHUA  SYLVESTER 

Within  All  things,  not  there  included ; 
Without  All  things,  not  thence  excluded : 

Above  All,  over  All  things  raigning ; 
Beneath  All,  All  things  aye  sustaining  : 
Without  All,  All  conteyning  sole  : 
Within  All,  filling-full  the  Whole  : 

Within  All,  no  where  comprehended ; 
Without  All,  no  where  more  extended ; 
Under,  by  nothing  over-topped  : 
Over,  by  nothing  under-propped  : 

Unmov'd,  Thou  mov'st  the  World  about ; 
Unplac't,  Within  it,  or  Without : 
Unchanged,  time-lesse,  Time  Thou  changest 
Th'  unstable,  Thou,  still  stable,  rangest ; 
No  outward  Force,  nor  inward  Fate, 
Can  Thy  drad  Essence  alterate  : 

To-day,  To-morrow,  yester-day, 
With  Thee  are  One,  and  instant  aye ; 
Aye  undivided,  ended  never  : 
To-day,  with  Thee,  indures  for-ever. 

Thou,  Father,  mad'st  this  mighty  Ball ; 
Of  nothing  thou  created'st  All, 
After,  th'  Idea  of  thy  Minde, 
Conferring  Forme  to  every  kinde. 

Thou  wert,  Thou  art,  Thou  wilt  be  ever  : 
And  Thine  Elect,  rejectest  never. 


15 

JOHN  DONNE 

1573-1631 
Sonnet 

BATTER  my  heart,  three  person'd  God ;  for,  you 
As  yet  but  knocke,  breathe,  shine,  and  seeke  to  mend; 
That  I  may  rise,  and  stand,  o'erthrow  mee,'and  bend 
Your  force,  to  breake,  blowe,  burn  and  make  me  new. 
I,  like  an  usurpt  towne,  to 'another  due, 
Labour  to'admit  you,  but  Oh,  to  no  end, 
Reason  your  viceroy  in  mee,  mee  should  defend, 
But  is  captiv'd,  and  proves  weake  or  untrue. 
Yet  dearely'I  love  you, 'and  would  be  loved  faine, 
But  am  betroth'd  unto  your  enemie  : 
Divorce  mee,'untie,  or  breake  that  knot  againe, 
Take  mee  to  you,  imprison  mee,  for  I 
Except  you'enthrall  mee,  never  shall  be  free, 
Nor  ever  chast,  except  you  ravish  mee. 

From  '  The  Crosse ' 

WHO  can  blot  out  the  Crosse,  which  th'instrument 
Of  God,  dew'd  on  mee  in  the  Sacrament  ? 
Who  can  deny  mee  power,  and  liberty 
To  stretch  mine  armes,  and  mine  owne  Crosse  to  be  ? 
Swimme,  and  at  every  stroake,  thou  art  thy  Crosse ; 
The  Mast  and  yard  make  one,  where  seas  do  tosse ; 
Looke  downe,  thou  spiest  out  Crosses  in  small  things ; 
Looke  up,  thou  seest  birds  rais'd  on  crossed  wings ; 
All  the  Globes  frame,  and  spheares,  is  nothing  else 
But  the  Meridians  crossing  Parallels. 
Material  Crosses  then,  good  physicke  bee, 
But  yet  spirituall  have  chief e  dignity. 
These  for  extracted  chimique  medicine  serve, 
And  cure  much  better,  and  as  well  preserve ; 


16  JOHN  DONNE 

Then  are  you  your  own  physicke,  or  need  none, 

When  Still'd,  or  purg'd  by  tribulation. 

For  when  that  Crosse  ungrudg'd,  unto  you  stickes, 

Then  are  you  to  your  selfe,  a  Crucifixe. 

As  perchance,  Carvers  do  not  faces  make, 

But  that  away,  which  hid  them  there,  do  take  ; 

Let  Crosses,  soe,  take  what  hid  Christ  in  thee, 

And  be  his  image,  or  not  his,  but  hee. 

Resurrection^  imperfect 

SLEEP  sleep  old  Sun,  thou  canst  not  have  repast 
As  yet,  the  wound  thou  took'st  on  friday  last ; 
Sleepe  then,  and  rest ;   The  world  may  beare  thy  stay, 
A  better  Sun  rose  before  thee  to  day, 
Who,  not  content  to'enlighten  all  that  dwell 
On  the  earths  face,  as  thou,  enlightned  hell, 
And  made  the  darke  fires  languish  in  that  vale, 
As,  at  thy  presence  here,  our  fires  grow  pale. 
Whose  body  having  walk'd  on  earth,  and  now 
Hasting  to  Heaven,  would,  that  he  might  allow 
Himselfe  unto  all  stations,  and  fill  all, 
For  these  three  daies  become  a  minerall ; 
Hee  was  all  gold  when  he  lay  downe,  but  rose 
All  tincture,  and  doth  not  alone  dispose 
Leaden  and  iron  wills  to  good,  but  is 
Of  power  to  make  even  sinfull  flesh  like  his. 
Had  one  of  those,  whose  credulous  pietie 
Thought,  that  a  Soule  one  might  discerne  and  see 
Goe  from  a  body,'at  this  sepulcher  been, 
And,  issuing  from  the  sheet,  this  body  seen, 
He  would  have  justly  thought  this  body  a  soule, 
If  not  of  any  man,  yet  of  the  whole. 
Desunt  c&tera 


JOHN  DONNE  17 

Goodfiiday,  1613.     Riding  Westward 

I  ET  mans  Soule  be  a  Spheare,  and  then,  in  this, 
I  ^The  intelligence  that  moves,  devotion  is, 
And  as  the  other  Spheares,  by  being  growne 
Subject  to  forraigne  motions,  lose  their  owne, 
And  being  by  others  hurried  every  day, 
Scarce  in  a  yeare  their  naturall  forme  obey  : 
Pleasure  or  businesse,  so,  our  Soules  admit 
For  their  first  mover,  and  are  whirld  by  it. 
Hence  is't,  that  I  am  carryed  towards  the  West 
This  day,  when  my  Soules  forme  bends  toward  the  East. 
There  I  should  see  a  Sunne,  by  rising  set, 
And  by  that  setting  endlesse  day  beget ; 
But  that  Christ  on  this  Crosse,  did  rise  and  fall, 
Sinne  had  eternally  benighted  all. 
Yet  dare  Palmost  be  glad,  I  do  not  see 
That  spectacle  of  too  much  weight  for  mee. 
Who  sees  Gods  face,  that  is  selfe  life,  must  dye ; 
What  a  death  were  it  then  to  see  God  dye  ? 
It  made  his  owne  Lieutenant  Nature  shrinke, 
It  made  his  footstoole  crack,  and  the  Sunne  winke. 
Could  I  behold  those  hands  which  span  the  Poles, 
And  turne  all  spheares  at  once,  peirc'd  with  those  holes  ? 
Could  I  behold  that  endlesse  height  which  is 
Zenith  to  us,  and  our  Antipodes, 
Humbled  below  us  ?   or  that  blood  which  is 
The  seat  of  all  our  Soules,  if  not  of  his, 
Made  durt  of  dust,  or  that  flesh  which  was  worne 
By  God,  for  his  apparell,  rag'd,  and  torne  ? 
If  on  these  things'  I  durst  not  looke,  durst  I 
Upon  his  miserable  mother  cast  mine  eye, 
Who  was  Gods  partner  here,  and  furnish'd  thus 
Halfe  of  that  Sacrifice,  which  ransom'd  us  ? 


1 8  JOHN  DONNE 

Though  these  things,  as  I  ride,  be  from  mine  eye, 
They'are  present  yet  unto  my  memory, 
For  that  looks  towards  them ;   and  thou  look'st  towards 
mee, 

0  Saviour,  as  thou  hang'st  upon  the  tree  ; 

1  turne  my  backe  to  thee,  but  to  receive 
Corrections,  till  thy  mercies  bid  thee  leave. 
O  thinke  mee  worth  thine  anger,  punish  mee, 
Burne  off  my  rusts,  and  my  deformity, 
Restore  thine  Image,  so  much,  by  thy  grace, 
That  thou  may'st  know  mee,  and  I'll  turne  my  face. 


A  Hymne  to  Christ \  at  the  Authors  last 
going  into  Germany 

IN  what  torne  ship  soever  I  embarke, 
That  ship  shall  be  my  embleme  of  thy  Arke  ; 
What  sea  soever  swallow  mee,  that  flood 
Shall  be  to  mee  an  embleme  of  thy  blood ; 
Though  thou  with  clouds  of  anger  do  disguise 
Thy  face  ;  yet  through  that  maske  I  know  those  eyes, 
Which,  though  they  turne  away  sometimes, 
They  never  will  despise. 

I  sacrifice  this  Hand  unto  thee, 
And  all  whom  I  lov'd  there,  and  who  lov'd  mee  ; 
When  I  have  put  our  seas  twixt  them  and  mee, 
Put  thou  thy  sea  betwixt  my  sinnes  and  thee. 
As  the  trees  sap  doth  seeke  the  root  below 
In  winter,  in  my  winter  now  I  goe, 
Where  none  but  thee,  th'Eternall  root 
Of  true  Love  I  may  know. 


JOHN  DONNE  19 

Nor  thou  nor  thy  religion  dost  controule, 
The  amorousnesse  of  an  harmonious  Soule, 
But  thou  would'st  have  that  love  thy  selfe  :   As  thou 
Art  jealous,  Lord,  so  I  am  jealous  now, 
That  lov'st  not,  till  from  loving  more,  thou  free 
My  soule  :   Who  ever  gives,  takes  libertie  : 
O,  if  thou  car'st  not  whom  I  love 
Alas,  thou  lov'st  not  mee. 

Scale  then  this  bill  of  my  Divorce  to  All, 
On  whom  those  fainter  beames  of  love  did  fall ; 
Marry  those  loves,  which  in  youth  scattered  bee 
On  Fame,  Wit,  Hopes  (false  mistresses)  to  thee. 
Churches  are  best  for  Prayer,  that  have  least  light : 
To  see  God  only,  I  goe  out  of  sight  : 
And  to  scape  stormy  dayes,  I  chuse 
An  Everlasting  night. 


PHINEAS  FLETCHER 

1580-1650 

The  Divine  Lover 


ME  Lord  ?   can'st  thou  mispend 
One  word,  misplace  one  look  on  me  ? 
Call'st  me  thy  Love,  thy  Friend  ? 

Can  this  poor  soul  the  object  be 
Of  these  love-glances,  those  life-kindling  eyes  ? 
What  ?   I  the  Centre  of  thy  arms  embraces  ? 
Of  all  thy  labour  I  the  prize  ? 
Love  never  mocks,  Truth  never  lies. 
Oh  how  I  quake  :    Hope  fear,  fear  hope  displaces  : 
I  would,  but  cannot  hope  :   such  wondrous  love  amazes. 


20  PHINEAS  FLETCHER 

ii 

See,  I  am  black  as  night, 
See  I  am  darkness :   dark  as  hell. 

Lord  thou  more  fair  than  light ; 
Heav'ns  Sun  thy  Shadow ;   can  Sunns  dwell 
With  Shades  ?  'twixt  light,  and  darkness  what  commerce  ? 
True  :   thou  art  darkness,  I  thy  Light :   my  ray 
Thy  mists,  and  hellish  foggs  shall  pierce. 
With  me,  black  soul,  with  me  converse. 
I  make  the  foul  December  flowry  May, 
Turn  thou  thy  night  to  me  :   Fie  turn  thy  night  to  day. 

in 

See  Lord,  see  I  am  dead  : 
Tomb'd  in  my  self  :   my  self  my  grave. 

A  drudge .:   so  born,  so  bred  : 
My  self  even  to  my  self  a  slave. 
Thou  Freedome,  Life  :   can  Life,  and  Liberty 
Love  bondage,  death  ?     Thy  Freedom  I  :   I  tyed 
To  loose  thy  bonds  :   be  bound  to  me  : 
My  Yoke  shall  ease,  my  bonds  shall  free. 
Dead  soul,  thy  Spring  of  life,  my  dying  side  : 
There  dye  with  me  to  live  :   to  live  in  thee  I  dyed. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

1591-1674 
Eternitie 

OYEARES!   and  Age!   Farewell: 
Behold  I  go, 
Where  I  do  know 
Infinitie  to  dwell. 


ROBERT  HERRICK  21 

And  these  mine  eyes  shall  see 

All  times,  how  they 

Are  lost  i'  th'  Sea 
Of  vast  Eternitie. 

Where  never  Moone  shall  sway 

The  Starres ;   but  she, 

And  Night,  shall  be 
Drown'd  in  one  endlesse  Day. 


FRANCIS  QUARLES 

1592-1644 

Christ  and  Our  Selves 

I  WISH  a  greater  knowledge,  then  t'attaine 
The  knowledge  of  my  selfe  :  A  greater  Gaine 
Then  to  augment  my  selfe ;  A  greater  Treasure 
Then  to  enjoy  my  selfe  :   A  greater  Pleasure 
Then  to  content  my  selfe  ;   How  slight,  and  vaine 
Is  all  selfe-Knowledge,  Pleasure,  Treasure,  Gaine ; 
Vnlesse  my  better  knowledge  could  retrive 
My  Christ ;   unles  my  better  Gaine  could  thrive 
In  Christ ;   unles  my  better  Wealth  grow  rich 
In  Christ ;   unles  my  better  Pleasure  pitch 
On  Christ ;   Or  else  my  Knowledge  will  proclaime 
To  my  owne  heart  how  ignorant  I  am : 
Or  else  my  Gaine,  so  ill  improv'd,  will  shame 
My  Trade,  and  shew  how  much  declin'd  I  am  ; 
Or  else  my  Treasure  will  but  blurre  my  name 
With  Bankrupt,  and  divulge  how  poore  I  am  ; 
Or  else  my  Pleasures,  that  so  much  inflame 
My  Thoughts,  will  blabb  how  full  of  sores  I  am : 
Lord,  keepe  me  from  my  Selfe ;   'Tis  best  for  me, 
Never  to  owne  my  Selfe,  if  not  in  Thee. 


22  FRANCIS  QUARLES 

My  beloved  is  mine^  and  I  am  his  y 
He  feedeth  among  the  lilies 

EV'N  like  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks, 
That  wash  the  pebbles  with  their  wanton  streams, 
And  having  rang'd  and  search'd  a  thousand  nooks, 
Meet  both  at  length  in  silver-breasted  Thames, 

Where  in  a  greater  current  they  conjoin  : 
So  I  my  best-beloved's  am  ;   so  he  is  mine. 

Ev'n  so  we  met ;  and  after  long  pursuit, 

Ev'n  so  we  joyn'd  ;   we  both  became  entire  ; 

No  need  for  either  to  renew  a  suit, 

For  I  was  flax  and  he  was  flames  of  fire  : 

Our  firm-united  souls  did  more  than  twine ; 

So  I  my  best-beloved's  am  ;   so  he  is  mine. 

If  all  those  glitt'ring  Monarchs  that  command 

The  servile  quarters  of  this  earthly  ball, 
Should  tender,  in  exchange,  their  shares  of  land, 

I  would  not  change  my  fortunes  for  them  all : 

Their  wealth  is  but  a  counter  to  my  coin  : 
The  world 's  but  theirs  ;   but  my  beloved 's  mine. 
Nay,  more  ;   If  the  fair  Thespian  Ladies  all 

Should  heap  together  their  diviner  treasure  : 
That  treasure  should  be  deem'd  a  price  too  small 

To  buy  a  minute's  lease  of  half  my  pleasure  ; 

'Tis  not  the  sacred  wealth  of  all  the  nine 
Can  buy  my  heart  from  him,  or  his,  from  being  mine. 

Nor  Time,  nor  Place,  nor  Chance,  nor  Death  can  bow 
My  least  desires  unto  the  least  remove  ; 

He 's  firmly  mine  by  oath  ;   I  his  by  vow  ; 
He 's  mine  by  faith  ;   and  I  am  his  by  love  ; 
He  's  mine  by  water  ;    I  am  his  by  wine  ; 

Thus  I  my  best-beloved's  am  ;  thus  he  is  mine. 


FRANCIS  QUARLES  23 

He  is  my  Altar  ;   I,  his  Holy  Place  ; 

I  am  his  guest ;  and  he,  my  living  food  ; 
I'm  his  by  penitence  ;   he  mine  by  grace  ; 

I'm  his  by  purchase  ;   he  is  mine,  by  blood  ; 
He  's  my  supporting  elm  ;   and  I  his  vine  ; 
Thus  I  my  best  beloved's  am ;   thus  he  is  mine. 

He  gives  me  wealth  ;   I  give  him  all  my  vows  : 
I  give  him  songs  ;   he  gives  me  length  of  dayes ; 

With  wreaths  of  grace  he  crowns  my  conqu'ring  brows, 
And  I  his  temples  with  a  crown  of  Praise, 
Which  he  accepts  as  an  everlasting  signe, 

That  I  my  best-beloved's  am  ;   that  he  is  mine. 


GEORGE  HERBERT 

1593-1632 

Raster  Song 

I  GOT  me  flowers  to  straw  Thy  way, 
I  got  me  boughs  off  many  a  tree  ; 
But  Thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 
And  brought'st  Thy  sweets  along  with  Thee. 

The  sunne  arising  in  the  East, 

Though  he  give' light,  and  th'  East  perfume, 

If  they  should  offer  to  contest 

With  Thy  arising,  they  presume. 

Can  there  be  any  day  but  this, 
Though  many  sunnes  to  shine  endeavour  ? 
We  count  three  hundred,  but  we  misse  : 
There  is  but  one,  and  that  one  ever. 


24  GEORGE  HERBERT 


Affliction 

MY  heart  did  heave,  and  there  came  forth  '  O  God  !  ' 
By  that  I  knew  that  Thou  wast  in  the  grief, 
To  guide  and  govern  it  to  my  relief, 
Making  a  scepter  of  the  rod  : 

Hadst  Thou  not  had  Thy  part, 
Sure  the  unruly  sigh  had  broke  my  heart. 

But  since  Thy  breath  gave  me  both  life  and  shape, 
Thou  know'st  my  tallies ;  and  when  there  's  assign'd 
So  much  breath  to  a  sigh,  what 's  then  behinde  ? 
Or  if  some  yeares  with  it  escape, 

The  sigh  then  onely  is 
A  gale  to  bring  me  sooner  to  my  blisse. 

Thy  life  on  earth  was  grief,  and  Thou  art  still 
Constant  unto  it,  making  it  to  be 
A  point  of  honour  now  to  grieve  in  me, 
And  in  Thy  members  suffer  ill. 
They  who  lament  one  crosse, 
Thou  dying  dayly,  praise  Thee  to  Thy  losse. 


Man 

MY  God,  I  heard  this  day 
That  none  doth  build  a  stately  habitation 
But  he  that  means  to  dwell  therein. 
What  house  more  stately  hath  there  been, 
Or  can  be,  then  is  Man  ?   to  whose  creation 
All  things  are  in  decay. 


GEORGE  HERBERT  25 

For  Man  is  ev'ry  thing, 
And  more  :  he  is  a  tree,  yet  bears  no  fruit ; 
A  beast,  yet  is,  or  should  be,  more  : 
Reason  and  speech  we  onely  bring  ; 
Parrats  may  thank  us,  if  they  are  not  mute, 
They  go  upon  the  score. 

Man  is  all  symmetric, 
Full  of  proportions,  one  limbe  to  another, 
And  all  to  all  the  world  besides  ; 
Each  part  may  call  the  farthest  brother, 
For  head  with  foot  hath  private  amitie, 
And  both  with  moons  and  tides. 

Nothing  hath  got  so  farre 
But  Man  hath  caught  and  kept  it  as  his  prey ; 
His  eyes  dismount  the  highest  starre  ; 
He  is  in  little  all  the  sphere  ; 
Herbs  gladly  cure  our  flesh,  because  that  they 
Find  their  acquaintance  there. 

For  us  the  windes  do  blow, 

The  earth  doth  rest,  heav'n  move,  and  fountains  flow ; 
Nothing  we  see  but  means  our  good, 
As  our  delight  or  as  our  treasure  ; 
The  whole  is  either  our  cupboard  of  food 
Or  cabinet  of  pleasure. 

The  starres  have  us  to  bed, 

Night  draws  the  curtain,  which  the  sunne  withdraws ; 
Musick  and  light  attend  our  head, 
All  things  unto  our  flesh  are  kinde 
In  their  descent  and  being  ;  to  our  minde 
In  their  ascent  and  cause. 


26  GEORGE  HERBERT 

Each  thing  is  full  of  dutie  : 
Waters  united  are  our  navigation  ; 
Distinguished,  our  habitation ; 
Below,  our  drink  ;  above,  our  meat ; 
Both  are  our  cleanlinesse.    Hath  one  such  beautie? 
Then  how  are  all  things  neat ! 

More  servants  wait  on  Man 
Than  he'l  take  notice  of  :  in  ev'ry  path 
He  treads  down  that  which  doth  befriend  him 
When  sicknesse  makes  him  pale  and  wan. 
Oh  mightie  love  !    Man  is  one  world,  and  hath 
Another  to  attend  him. 

Since  then,  my  God,  Thou  hast 
So  brave  a  palace  built,  O  dwell  in  it, 
That  it  may  dwell  with  Thee  at  last ! 
Till  then  afford  us  so  much  wit, 
That,  as  the  world  serves  us,  we  may  serve  Thee, 
And  both  Thy  servants  be. 


s 


Dialogue 

Man 

WEETEST  Saviour,  if  my  soul 
Were  but  worth  the  having, 
Quickly  should  I  then  controll 

Any  thought  of  waving. 
But  when  all  my  cares  and  pains 
Cannot  give  the  name  of  gains 
To  Thy  wretch  so  full  of  stains, 
What  delight  or  hope  remains  ? 


GEORGE  HERBERT  27 

Saviour 
What,  childe,  is  the  ballance  thine, 

Thine  the  poise  and  measure  ? 
If  I  say,  '  Thou  shalt  be  Mine,' 

Finger  not  My  treasure. 
What  the  gains  in  having  thee 
Do  amount  to,  onely  He 
Who  for  man  was  sold  can  see  ; 
That  transferr'd  th'  accounts  to  Me. 

Man 
But  as  I  can  see  no  merit 

Leading  to  this  favour, 
So  the  way  to  fit  me  for  it 

Is  beyond  my  savour. 
As  the  reason,  then,  is  Thine, 
So  the  way  is  none  of  mine : 
I  disclaim  the  whole  designe  ; 
Sinne  disclaims  and  I  resigne. 

Saviour 
That  is  all : — if  that  I  could 

Get  without  repining ; 
And  My  clay,  My  creature,  would 

Follow  my  resigning ; 
That  as  I  did  freely  part 
With  my  glorie  and  desert, 
Left  all  joyes  to  feel  all  smart 

Man 
Ah,  no  more  :  Thou  break'st  my  heart. 


28  GEORGE  HERBERT 

Clasping  of  Hands 
I ORD,  Thou  art  mine,  and  I  am  Thine, 
Li  If  mine  I  am  ;  and  Thine  much  more 
Then  I  or  ought  or  can  be  mine. 
Yet  to  be  Thine  doth  me  restore, 
So  that  again  I  now  am  mine, 
And  with  advantage  mine  the  more, 
Since  this  being  mine  brings  with  it  Thine. 
And  Thou  with  me  dost  Thee  restore  : 

If  I  without  Thee  would  be  mine, 

I  neither  should  be  mine  nor  Thine. 
Lord,  I  am  Thine,  and  Thou  art  mine  ; 
So  mine  Thou  art,  that  something  more 
I  may  presume  Thee  mine  then  Thine, 
For  Thou  didst  suffer  to  restore 
Not  Thee,  but  me,  and  to  be  mine  : 
And  with  advantage  mine  the  more, 
Since  Thou  in  death  wast  none  of  Thine, 
Yet  then  as  mine  didst  me  restore  : 

O,  be  mine  still ;  still  make  me  Thine  ; 

Or  rather  make  no  Thine  and  Mine. 

The  Pulley 

WHEN  God  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  glasse  of  blessings  standing  by, 
*  Let  us,'  said  He,  *  poure  on  him  all  we  can  ; 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 
Contract  into  a  span.' 

So  strength  first  made  a  way ; 

Then  beautie  flow'd,  then  wisdome,  honour,  pleasure  ; 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that,  alone  of  all  His  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottome  lay. 


GEORGE  HERBERT  29 

*  For  if  I  should,'  said  He, 

*  Bestow  this  Jewell  also  on  My  creature, 
He  would  adore  My  gifts  in  stead  of  Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature  : 
So  both  should  losers  be. 

*  Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 

But  keep  them  with  repining  restlesnesse  ; 
Let  him  be  rich  and  wearie,  that  at  least, 
If  goodnesse  leade  him  not,  yet  wearinesse 
May  tosse  him  to  My  breast.' 


The  El'txer 

TEACH  me,  my  God  and  King, 
In  all  things  Thee  to  see, 
And  what  I  do  in  any  thing 
To  do  it  as  for  Thee. 

Not  rudely,  as  a  beast, 
To  runne  into  an  action  ; 
But  still  to  make  Thee  prepossest, 
And  give  it  his  perfection. 

A  man  that  looks  on  glasse, 
On  it  may  stay  his  eye  ; 
Or  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  passe, 
And  then  the  heav'n  espie. 

All  may  of  Thee  partake  : 
Nothing  can  be  so  mean 
Which  with  his  tincture,  'for  Thy  sake,' 
Will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 


30  GEORGE  HERBERT 

A  servant  with  this  clause 
Makes  drudgerie  divine  ; 
Who  sweeps  a  room  as  for  Thy  laws 
Makes  that  and  th'  action  fine. 

This  is  the  famous  stone 
That  turneth  all  to  gold  ; 
For  that  which  God  doth  touch  and  own 
Cannot  for  lesse  be  told. 


The  Collar 

I  STRUCK  the  board,  and  cry'd,  <  No  more  ; 
I  will  abroad.' 

What,  shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine  ? 
My  lines  and  life  are  free  ;  free  as  the  rode, 
Loose  as  the  winde,  as  large  as  store. 
Shall  I  be  still  in  suit  ? 
Have  I  no  harvest  but  a  thorn 
To  let  me  bloud,  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordiall  fruit  ? 
Sure  there  was  wine 
Before  my  sighs  did  drie  it ;  there  was  corn 

Before  my  tears  did  drown  it. 
Is  the  yeare  onely  lost  to  me  ? 
Have  I  no  bayes  to  crown  it, 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gay  ?   all  blasted, 

All  wasted  ? 
Not  so,  my  heart ;  but  there  is  fruit, 

And  thou  hast  hands. 
Recover  all  thy  sigh-blown  age 
On  double  pleasures ;  leave  thy  cold  dispute 
Of  what  is  fit  and  not ;  forsake  thy  cage, 
Thy  rope  of  sands, 


GEORGE  HERBERT  31 

Which  pettie  thoughts  have  made  ;  and  made  to  thee 
Good  cable,  to  enforce  and  draw, 

And  be  thy  law, 

While  thou  didst  wink  and  wouldst  not  see. 
Away  !    take  heed  ; 
I  will  abroad. 
Call  in  thy  death's-head  there,  tie  up  thy  £ears ; 

He  that  forbears 
To  suit  and  serve  his  need 

Deserves  his  load. 
But  as  I  rav'd  and  grew  more  fierce  and  wilde 

At  every  word, 

Me  thought  I  heard  one  calling,  '  Childe ' ; 
And  I  reply'd,  <  My  Lord.' 


CHRISTOPHER  HARVEY 

1597-1663 
The  Nativity 

UNFOLD  thy  face,  unmaske  thy  ray, 
Shine  forth,  bright  Sunne,  double  the  day. 
Let  no  malignant  misty  fume, 
Nor  foggy  vapour,  once  presume 
To  interpose  thy  perfect  sight 
This  day,  which  makes  us  love  thy  light 
For  ever  better,  that  we  could 
That  blessed  object  once  behold, 
Which  is  both  the  circumference, 
And  center  of  all  excellence  : 
Or  rather  neither,  but  a  treasure 
Unconfined  without  measure, 
Whose  center  and  circumference, 
Including  all  preheminence, 


32  CHRISTOPHER  HARVEY 

Excluding  nothing  but  defect, 
And  infinite  in  each  respect, 
Is  equally  both  here  and  there, 
And  now  and  then  and  every  where, 
And  alwaies,  one,  himselfe,  the  same, 
A  beeing  farre  above  a  name. 
Draw  neer  then,  and  freely  poure 
Forth  all  thy  light  into  that  houre, 
Which  was  crowned  with  his  birth, 
And  made  heaven  envy  earth. 

Let  not  his  birth-day  clouded  be, 
By  whom  thou  shinest,  and  we  see. 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

?  1613-1649 

'  I  am  not  worthy  that  thou  should'st  come  under  my  roofe.' 

'"T'HY  God  was  making  hast  into  thy  roofe, 

JL  Thy  humble  faith,  and  feare,  keepes  him  aloofe : 
Hee'l  be  thy  guest,  because  he  may  not  be, 
Hee'l  come — into  thy  house  ?   no,  into  thee. 

The  Recommendation 

HPHESE  Houres,  and  that  which  hovers  o're  my  End, 
1  Into  thy  hands,  and  hart,  lord,  I  commend. 

Take  Both  to  Thine  Account,  that  I  and  mine 
In  that  Hour,  and  in  these,  may  be  all  thine. 

That  as  I  dedicate  my  devoutest  Breath 
To  make  a  kind  of  Life  for  my  lord's  Death, 

So  from  his  living,  and  life-giving  Death, 

My  dying  Life  may  draw  a  new,  and  never  fleeting  Breath. 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  33 

To  the  Name  above  every  Name,  the 
Name  of  Jesus 

A    HYMN 

I  SING  the  Name  which  None  can  say 
But  touch't  with  An  interiour  Ray  : 
The  Name  of  our  New  Peace  ;  our  Good  : 
Our  Blisse  :   and  Supernaturall  Blood  : 
The  Name  of  All  our  Lives  and  Loves. 
Hearken,  And  Help,  ye  holy  Doves  ! 
The  high-born  Brood  of  Day ;   you  bright 
Candidates  of  blissefull  Light, 
The  Heirs  Elect  of  Love  ;  whose  Names  belong 
Unto  The  everlasting  life  of  Song  ; 
All  ye  wise  Soules,  who  in  the  wealthy  Brest 
Of  This  unbounded  Name  build  your  warm  Nest. 
Awake,  My  glory.    Soul,  (if  such  thou  be, 
And  That  fair  Word  at  all  referr  to  Thee) 

Awake  and  sing 

And  be  All  Wing; 

Bring  hither  thy  whole  Self  ;  and  let  me  see 
What  of  thy  Parent  Heavn  yet  speakes  in  thee. 

O  thou  art  Poore 

Of  noble  Powres,  I  see, 
And  full  of  nothing  else  but  empty  Me, 
Narrow,  and  low,  and  infinitely  lesse 
Then  this  Great  mornings  mighty  Busynes. 

One  little  World  or  two 

(Alas)  will  never  doe. 

We  must  have  store. 
Goe,  Soul,  out  of  thy  Self,  and  seek  for  More. 

Goe  and  request 
Great  Nature  for  the  Key  of  her  huge  Chest 


54  RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Of  Heavns,  the  self  involving  Sett  of  Sphears 
(Which  dull  mortality  more  Feeles  then  heares) 

Then  rouse  the  nest 
Of  nimble  Art,  and  traverse  round 
The  Aiery  Shop  of  soul-appeasing  Sound  : 
And  beat  a  summons  in  the  Same 

All-soveraign  Name 
To  warn  each  severall  kind 
And  shape  of  sweetnes,  Be  they  such 

As  sigh  with  supple  wind 

Or  answer  Artfull  Touch, 
That  they  convene  and  come  away 
To  wait  at  the  love-crowned  Doores  of 

This  Illustrious  Day. 

Shall  we  dare  This,  my  Soul  ?   we'l  doe't  and  bring 
No  Other  note  for't,  but  the  Name  we  sing. 

Wake  Lute  and  Harp 

And  every  sweet-lipp't  Thing 

That  talkes  with  tunefull  string ; 
Start  into  life,  And  leap  with  me 
Into  a  hasty  Fitt-tun'd  Harmony. 

Nor  must  you  think  it  much 

T'obey  my  bolder  touch  ; 
I  have  Authority  in  Love's  name  to  take  you 
And  to  the  worke  of  Love  this  morning  wake  you  ; 

Wake  ;   In  the  Name 
Of  Him  who  never  sleeps,  All  Things  that  Are, 

Or,  what's  the  same, 

Are  Musicall ; 

Answer  my  Call 

And  come  along  ; 

Help  me  to  meditate  mine  Immortall  Song. 
Come,  ye  soft  ministers  of  sweet  sad  mirth, 
Bring  All  your  houshold  stuffe  of  Heavn  on  earth  ; 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  35 

O  you,  my  Soul's  most  certain  Wings, 
Complaining  Pipes,  and  prattling  Strings, 

Bring  All  the  store 

Of  Sweets  you  have  ;   And  murmur  that  you  have  no 
more. 

Come,  nere  to  part, 

Nature  and  Art ! 

Come  ;   and  come  strong, 
To  the  conspiracy  of  our  Spatious  song. 

Bring  All  the  Powres  of  Praise 
Your  Provinces  of  well-united  Worlds  can  raise  ; 
Bring  All  your  Lutes  and  Harps  of  Heavn  and  Earth ; 
What  ere  cooperates  to  The  common  mirthe 

Vessells  of  vocall  loyes, 

Or  You,  more  noble  Architects  of  Intellectuall  Noise, 
Cymballs  of  Heav'n,  or  Humane  sphears, 
Sollickers  of  Soules  or  Eares ; 

And  when  you'are  come,  with  All 
That  you  can  bring  or  we  can  call ; 

O  may  you  fix 

For  ever  here,  and  mix 

Your  selves  into  the  long 
And  everlasting  series  of  a  deathlesse  Song  ; 
Mix  All  your  many  Worlds,  Above, 
And  loose  them  into  One  of  Love. 

Chear  thee  my  Heart ! 

For  Thou  too  hast  thy  Part 

And  Place  in  the  Great  Throng 
Of  This  unbounded  All-imbracing  Song. 

Powres  of  my  Soul,  be  Proud  ! 

And  speake  lowd 

To  All  the  dear-bought  Nations  This  Redeeming  Name 
And  in  the  wealth  of  one  Rich  Word  proclaim 
New  Similes  to  Nature. 


36  RICHARD  CRASHAW 

May  it  be  no  wrong 

Blest  Heavns,  to  you,  and  your  Superiour  song, 
That  we,  dark  Sons  of  Dust  and  Sorrow, 

A  while  Dare  borrow 

The  Name  of  Your  Dilights  and  our  Desires, 
And  fitt  it  to  so  farr  inferior  Lyres. 
Our  Murmurs  have  their  Musick  too, 
Ye  mighty  Orbes,  as  well  as  you, 

Nor  yeilds  the  noblest  Nest 
Of  warbling  Seraphim  to  the  eares  of  Love, 
A  choicer  Lesson  then  the  joyfull  Brest 

Of  a  poor  panting  Turtle-Dove. 
And  we,  low  Wormes  have  leave  to  doe 
The  Same  bright  Busynes  (ye  Third  Heavens)  with  you, 
Gentle  Spirits,  doe  not  complain. 

We  will  have  care 

To  keep  it  fair, 
And  send  it  back  to  you  again. 
Come,  lovely  Name  !    Appeare  from  forth  the  Bright 

Regions  of  peacefull  Light, 
Look  from  thine  own  Illustrious  Home, 
Fair  King  of  Names,  and  come. 

Leave  All  thy  native  Glories  in  their  Georgeous  Nest, 
And  give  thy  Self  a  while  The  gracious  Guest 
Of  humble  Soules,  that  seek  to  find 

The  hidden  Sweets 

Which  man's  heart  meets 
When  Thou  art  Master  of  the  Mind. 
Come,  lovely  Name  ;   life  of  our  hope  ! 
Lo  we  hold  our  Hearts  wide  ope  ! 
Unlock  thy  Cabinet  of  Day 
Dearest  Sweet,  and  come  away. 

Lo  how  the  thirsty  Lands 
Gasp  for  thy  Golden  Showres  1  with  longstretch't  Hands. 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  37 

Lo  how  the  laboring  Earth 

That  hopes  to  be 

All  Heaven  by  Thee, 

Leapes  at  thy  Birth. 
The'  attending  World,  to  wait  thy  Rise, 

First  turn'd  to  eyes ; 
And  then,  not  knowing  what  to  doe  ; 
Turn'd  Them  to  Teares,  and  spent  Them  too. 
Come  Royall  Name,  and  pay  the  expence 
Of  All  this  Pretious  Patience. 

O  come  away 

And  kill  the  Death  of  This  Delay. 
O  see,  so  many  Worlds  of  barren  yeares 
Melted  and  measur'd  out  in  Seas  of  Teares. 
O  see,  The  Weary  liddes  of  wakefull  Hope 
(Love's  Eastern  windowes)  All  wide  ope 

With  Curtains  drawn, 
To  catch  The  Day-break  of  Thy  Dawn. 
O  dawn,  at  last,  long  look't  for  Day  ! 
Take  thine  own  wings,  and  come  away. 
Lo,  where  Aloft  it  comes !    It  comes,  Among 
The  Conduct  of  Adoring  Spirits,  that  throng 
Like  diligent  Bees,  And  swarm  about  it. 

O  they  are  wise  ; 
And  know  what  Sweetes  are  suck't  from  out  it. 

It  is  the  Hive, 

By  which  they  thrive, 
Where  All  their  Hoard  of  Hony  lyes. 
Lo  whereat  comes,  upon  The  snowy  Dove's 
Soft  Back  ;  And  brings  a  Bosom  big  with  Loves. 
Welcome  to  our  dark  world,  Thou 

Womb  of  Day ! 

Unfold  thy  fair  Conceptions ;   And  display 
The  Birth  of  our  Bright  loyes. 


38  RICHARD  CRASHAW 

O  thou  compacted 

Body  of  Blessings  :  spirit  of  Soules  extracted  ! 
O  dissipate  thy  spicy  Powres 
(Clowd  of  condensed  sweets)  and  break  upon  us 

In  balmy  showrs  ; 
O  fill  our  senses,  And  take  from  us 
All  force  of  so  Prophane  a  Fallacy 
To  think  ought  sweet  but  that  which  smells  of  Thee. 
Fair,  flowry  Name  ;   In  none  but  Thee 
And  Thy  Nectareall  Fragrancy, 

Hourly  there  meetes 
An  universall  Synod  of  All  sweets  ; 
By  whom  it  is  defined  Thus 

That  no  Perfume 

For  ever  shall  presume 
To  passe  for  Odoriferous, 
But  such  alone  whose  sacred  Pedigree 
Can  prove  it  Self  some  kin  (sweet  name)  to  Thee. 
Sweet  Name,  in  Thy  each  Syllable 
A  Thousand  Blest  Arabias  dwell ; 
A  Thousand  Hills  of  Frankincense  ; 
Mountains  of  myrrh,  and  Beds  of  species, 
And  ten  Thousand  Paradises, 
The  soul  that  tasts  thee  takes  from  thence. 
How  many  unknown  Worlds  there  are 
Of  Comforts,  which  Thou  hast  in  keeping  ! 
How  many  Thousand  Mercyes  there 
In  Pitty's  soft  lap  ly  a  sleeping ! 
Happy  he  who  has  the  art 

To  awake  them, 

And  to  take  them 

Home,  and  lodge  them  in  his  Heart. 
O  that  it  were  as  it  was  wont  to  be  ! 
When  thy  old  Freinds  of  Fire,  All  full  of  Thee, 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 


39 


Fought  against  Frowns  with  smiles  ;  gave  Glorious  chase 

To  Persecutions  ;  And  against  the  Face 

Of  Death  and  feircest  Dangers,  durst  with  Brave 

And  sober  pace  march  on  to  meet  A  Grave. 

On  their  Bold  Brests  about  the  world  they  bore  thee 

And  to  the  Teeth  of  Hell  stood  up  to  teach  thee, 

In  Center  of  their  inmost  Soules  they  wore  thee, 

Where  Rackes  and  Torments  striv'd,  in  vain,  to  reach  thee. 

Little,  alas,  thought  They 
Who  tore  the  Fair  Brests  of  thy  Freinds, 

Their  Fury  but  made  way 

For  Thee  ;  And  serv'd  them  in  Thy  glorious  ends. 
What  did  Their  weapons  but  with  wider  pores 
Inlarge  thy  flaming-brested  Lovers 

More  freely  to  transpire 

That  impatient  Fire 

The  Heart  that  hides  Thee  hardly  covers. 
What  did  their  Weapons  but  sett  wide  the  Doores 
For  Thee  :   Fair,  purple  Doores,  of  love's  devising  ; 
The  Ruby  windowes  which  inrich't  the  East 
Of  Thy  so  oft  repeated  Rising. 
Each  wound  of  Theirs  was  Thy  new  Morning  ; 
And  reinthron'd  thee  in  thy  Rosy  Nest, 
With  blush  of  thine  own  Blood  thy  day  adorning, 
It  was  the  witt  of  love  oreflowd  the  Bounds 
Of  Wrath,  and  made  thee  way  through  All  Those  wounds. 
Wellcome  dear,  All-Adored  Name  ! 

For  sure  there  is  no  Knee 

That  knowes  not  Thee. 
Or  if  there  be  such  sonns  of  shame, 

Alas  what  will  they  doe 

When  stubborn  Rocks  shall  bow 
And  Hills  hang  down  their  Heavn-saluting  Heads 

To  seek  for  humble  Beds 


40  RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Of  Dust,  where  in  the  Bashfull  shades  of  night 

Next  to  their  own  low  Nothing  they  may  ly, 

And  couch  before  the  dazeling  light  of  thy  dread  majesty. 

They  that  by  Love's  mild  Dictate  now 

Will  not  adore  thee, 
Shall  Then  with  Just  Confusion,  bow 

And  break  before  thee. 


A  Hymn  to  the  Name  and  Honor  of  the 
Admirable  Samte  Teresa 

Fovndresse  of  the  Reformation  of  the  Discalced  Carmelites,  both 
men  and  Women ;  a  Woman  for  Angelicall  heigth  of  speculation, 
for  Masculine  courage  of  performance,  more  then  a  woman.  Who 
yet  a  child,  out  ran  maturity,  and  durst  plott  a  Martyrdome. 

OVE,  thou  art  Absolute  sole  lord 

Life  and  Death.    To  prove  the  word, 
Wee'l  now  appeal  to  none  of  all 
Those  thy  old  Souldiers,  Great  and  tall, 
Ripe  Men  of  Martyrdom,  that  could  reach  down 
With  strong  armes,  their  triumphant  crown  ; 
Such  as  could  with  lusty  breath 
Speak  lowd  into  the  face  of  death 
Their  Great  Lord's  glorious  name,  to  none 
Of  those  whose  spatious  Bosomes  spread  a  throne 
For  Love  at  larg  to  fill,  spare  blood  and  sweat ; 
And  see  him  take  a  private  seat, 
Making  his  mansion  in  the  mild 
And  milky  soul  of  a  soft  child. 

Scarse  has  she  learn't  to  lisp  the  name 
Of  Martyr  ;  yet  she  thinks  it  shame 
Life  should  so  long  play  with  that  breath 
Which  spent  can  buy  so  brave  a  death. 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  41 

She  never  undertook  to  know 

What  death  with  love  should  have  to  doe  ; 

Nor  has  she  e're  yet  understood 

Why  to  show  love,  she  should  shed  blood 

Yet  though  she  cannot  tell  you  why, 

She  can  Love,  and  she  can  Dy. 

Scarse  has  she  Blood  enough  to  make 
A  guilty  sword  blush  for  her  sake  ; 
Yet  has  she'a  Heart  dares  hope  to  prove 
How  much  lesse  strong  is  Death  then  Love. 

Be  love  but  there  ;  let  poor  six  yeares 
Be  pos'd  with  the  maturest  Feares 
Man  trembles  at,  you  straight  shall  find 
Love  knowes  no  nonage,  nor  the  Mind. 
'Tis  Love,  not  Yeares  or  Limbs  that  can 
Make  the  Martyr,  or  the  man. 

Love  touch't  her  Heart,  and  lo  it  beates 
High,  and  burnes  with  such  brave  heates  ; 
Such  thirsts  to  dy,  as  dares  drink  up, 
A  thousand  cold  deaths  in  one  cup. 
Good  reason.    For  she  breathes  All  fire. 
Her  weake  brest  heaves  with  strong  desire 
Of  what  she  may  with  fruitles  wishes 
Seek  for  amongst  her  Mother's  kisses. 

Since  'tis  not  to  be  had  at  home 
She'l  travail  to  a  Martyrdom. 
No  home  for  hers  confesses  she 
But  where  she  may  a  Martyr  be. 

Sh'el  to  the  Moores ;  And  trade  with  them, 
For  this  unvalued  Diadem. 
She'l  offer  them  her  dearest  Breath, 
With  Christ's  Name  in't,  in  change  for  deatlu 
Sh'el  bargain  with  them  ;   and  will  give 
Them  God  ;  teach  them  how  to  live 


42  RICHARD  CRASHAW 

In  him  :  or,  if  they  this  deny, 
For  him  she'l  teach  them  how  to  Dy. 
So  shall  she  leave  amongst  them  sown 
Her  Lord's  Blood  ;  or  at  lest  her  own. 

Farewel  then,  all  the  world  !    Adieu. 
Teresa  is  no  more  for  you. 
Farewell,  all  pleasures,  sports,  and  ioyes, 
(Never  till  now  esteemed  toyes) 
Farewell  what  ever  deare  may  be, 
Mother's  armes  or  Father's  knee. 
Farewell  house,  and  farewell  home  ! 
She's  for  the  Moores,  and  Martyrdom. 

Sweet,  not  so  fast !  lo  thy  fair  Spouse 
Whom  thou  seekst  with  so  swift  vowes, 
Calls  thee  back,  and  bidds  thee  come 
T'embrace  a  milder  Martyrdom. 

Blest  powres  forbid,  Thy  tender  life 
Should  bleed  upon  a  barborous  knife  ; 
Or  some  base  hand  have  power  to  race 
Thy  Brest's  chast  cabinet,  and  uncase 
A  soul  kept  there  so  sweet,  6  no  ; 
Wise  heavn  will  never  have  it  so. 
Thou  art  love's  victime  ;   and  must  dy 
A  death  more  mysticall  and  high. 
Into  love's  armes  thou  shalt  let  fall 
A  still-surviving  funerall. 
His  is  the  Dart  must  make  the  Death 
Whose  stroke  shall  tast  thy  hallow'd  breath  ; 
A  Dart  thrice  dip't  in  that  rich  flame 
Which  writes  thy  spouse's  radiant  Name 
Upon  the  roof  of  Heav'n  ;  where  ay 
It  shines,  and  with  a  soveraign  ray 
Beates  bright  upon  the  burning  faces 
Of  soules  which  in  that  name's  sweet  graces 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  43 

Find  everlasting  smiles.    So  rare, 
So  spirituall,  pure,  and  fair 
Must  be  th'immortall  instrument 
Upon  whose  choice  point  shall  be  sent 
A  life  so  lov'd  ;  And  that  there  be 
Fitt  executioners  for  Thee, 
The  fair'st  and  first-born  sons  of  fire 
Blest  Seraphim,  shall  leave  their  quire 
And  turn  love's  souldiers,  upon  Thee 
To  exercise  their  archerie. 

O  how  oft  shalt  thou  complain 
Of  a  sweet  and  subtle  Pain. 
Of  intolerable  loyes  ; 
Of  a  Death,  in  which  who  dyes 
Loves  his  death,  and  dyes  again. 
And  would  for  ever  so  be  slain. 
And  lives,  and  dyes  ;  and  knowes  not  why 
To  live,  But  that  he  thus  may  never  leave  to  Dy. 

How  kindly  will  thy  gentle  Heart 
Kisse  the  sweetly-killing  Dart ! 
And  close  in  his  embraces  keep 
Those  delicious  Wounds,  that  weep 
Balsom  to  heal  themselves  with.    Thus 
When  These  thy  Deaths,  so  numerous, 
Shall  all  at  last  dy  into  one, 
And  melt  thy  Soul's  sweet  mansion  ; 
Like  a  soft  lump  of  incense,  hasted 
By  too  hott  a  fire,  and  wasted 
Into  perfuming  clouds,  so  fast 
Shalt  thou  exhale  to  Heavn  at  last 
In  a  resolving  Sigh,  and  then 
O  what  ?    Ask  not  the  Tongues  of  men. 
Angells  cannot  tell,  suffice, 
Thy  selfe  shall  feel  thine  own  full  ioyes 


44  RICHARD  CRASHAW 

And  hold  them  fast  for  ever  there 
So  soon  as  you  first  appear, 
The  Moon  of  maiden  Starrs,  thy  white 
Mistresse,  attended  by  such  bright 
Soules  as  thy  shining  self,  shall  come 
And  in  her  first  rankes  make  thee  room  ; 
Where  'mongst  her  snowy  family 
Immortall  wellcomes  wait  for  thee. 

O  what  delight,  when  reveal'd  Life  shall  stand 
And  teach  thy  lipps  heav'n  with  his  hand  ; 
On  which  thou  now  maist  to  thy  wishes 
Heap  up  thy  consecrated  kisses. 
What  ioyes  shall  seize  thy  soul,  when  she 
Bending  her  blessed  eyes  on  thee 
(Those  second  Smiles  of  Heav'n)  shall  dart 
Her  mild  rayes  through  thy  melting  heart ! 

Angels,  thy  old  freinds,  there  shall  greet  thee 
Glad  at  their  own  home  now  to  meet  thee. 

All  thy  good  Workes  which  went  before 
And  waited  for  thee,  at  the  door, 
Shall  own  thee  there  ;   and  all  in  one 
Weave  a  constellation 

Of  Crowns,  with  which  the  King  thy  spouse 
Shall  build  up  thy  triumphant  browes. 

All  thy  old  woes  shall  now  smile  on  thee 
And  thy  paines  sitt  bright  upon  thee, 
All  thy  Suffrings  be  divine. 
Teares  shall  take  comfort,  and  turn  gemms 
And  Wrongs  repent  to  Diademms. 
Ev'n  thy  Death  shall  live  ;   and  new 
Dresse  the  soul  that  erst  they  slew. 
Thy  wounds  shall  blush  to  such  bright  scarres 
As  keep  account  of  the  Lamb's  warres. 

Those  rare  Workes  where  thou  shalt  leave  writt 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  45 

Love's  noble  history,  with  witt 
Taught  thee  by  none  but  him,  while  here 
They  feed  our  soules,  shall  cloth  Thine  there. 
Each  heavnly  word  by  whose  hid  flame 
Our  hard  Hearts  shall  strike  fire,  the  same 
Shall  flourish  on  thy  browes,  and  be 
Both  fire  to  us  and  flame  to  thee  ; 
Whose  light  shall  live  bright  in  thy  Face 
By  glory,  in  our  hearts  by  grace. 

Thou  shalt  look  round  about,  and  see 
Thousands  of  crown'd  Soules  throng  to  be 
Themselves  thy  crown.    Sons  of  thy  vowes 
The  virgin-births  with  which  thy  soveraign  spouse 
Made  fruitfull  thy  fair  soul,  goe  now 
And  with  them  all  about  thee  bow 
To  Him,  put  on  (hee'l  say)  put  on 
(My  rosy  love)  That  thy  rich  zone 
Sparkling  with  the  sacred  flames 
Of  thousand  soules,  whose  happy  names 
Heav'n  keep  upon  thy  score,.    (Thy  bright 
Life  brought  them  first  to  kisse  the  light 
That  kindled  them  to  Starrs.)  and  so 
Thou  with  the  Lamb,  thy  lord,  shalt  goe  ; 
And  whereso'ere  he  setts  his  white 
Stepps,  walk  with  Him  those  wayes  of  light 
Which  who  in  death  would  live  to  see, 
Must  learn  in  life  to  dy  like  thee. 


46  RICHARD  CRASHAW 

The  Flaming  Heart 

Vpon  the  look  and.  Picture  of  the  seraphicall  saint  Teresa^ 
(as  she  is  vsvally  expressed  with  a  Seraphim  biside  her) 

WELL  meaning  readers !   you  that  come  as  freinds 
And  catch  the  pretious  name  this  peice  pretends ; 
Make  not  too  much  hast  to'  admire 
That  f  air-cheek' t  fallacy  of  fire. 
That  is  a  Seraphim,  they  say 
And  this  the  great  Teresia. 
Readers,  be  rul'd  by  me  ;  and  make 
Here  a  well-plac't  and  wise  mistake. 
You  must  transpose  the  picture  quite, 
And  spell  it  wrong  to  read  it  right ; 
Read  Him  for  her,  and  her  for  him  ; 
And  call  the  Saint  the  Seraphim. 

Painter,  what  didst  thou  understand 
To  put  her  dart  into  his  hand  ! 
See,  even  the  yeares  and  size  of  him 
Showes  this  the  mother  Seraphim. 
This  is  the  mistresse  flame  ;  and  duteous  he 
Her  happy  fire-works,  here,  comes  down  to  see. 
O  most  poor-spirited  of  men  ! 
Had  thy  cold  Pencil  kist  her  Pen 
Thou  couldst  not  so  unkindly  err 
To  show  us  This  faint  shade  for  Her. 
Why  man,  this  speakes  pure  mortall  frame  ; 
And  mockes  with  female  Frost  love's  manly  flame. 
One  would  suspect  thou  meant'st  to  print 
Some  weak,  inferiour,  woman  saint. 
But  had  thy  pale-fac't  purple  took 
Fire  from  the  burning  cheeks  of  that  bright  Booke 
Thou  wouldst  on  her  have  heap't  up  all 
That  could  be  found  Seraphicall ; 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  47 

What  e're  this  youth  of  fire  weares  fair, 

Rosy  fingers,  radiant  hair, 

Glowing  cheek,  and  glistering  wings, 

All  those  fair  and  flagrant  things, 

But  before  all,  that  fiery  Dart 

Had  fill'd  the  Hand  of  this  great  Heart. 

Doe  then  as  equall  right  requires, 
Since  His  the  blushes  be,  and  her's  the  fires, 
Resume  and  rectify  thy  rude  design  ; 
Undresse  thy  Seraphim  into  Mine. 
Redeem  this  injury  of  thy  art ; 
Give  Him  the  vail,  give  her  the  dart. 

Give  Him  the  vail ;  that  he  may  cover 
The  Red  cheeks  of  a  rivall'd  lover. 
Asham'd  that  our  world,  now,  can  show 
Nests  of  new  Seraphims  here  below. 

Give  her  the  Dart  for  it  is  she 
(Fair  youth)  shootes  both  thy  shaft  and  Thee 
Say,  all  ye  wise  and  well-peirc't  hearts 
That  live  and  dy  amidst  her  darts, 
What  is't  your  tastfull  spirits  doe  prove 
In  that  rare  life  of  Her,  and  love  ? 
Say  and  bear  wittnes.    Sends  she  not 
A  Seraphim  at  every  shott  ? 
What  magazins  of  immortall  Armes  there  shine ! 
Heavn's  great  artillery  in  each  love-spun  line. 
Give  then  the  dart  to  her  who  gives  the  flame  ; 
Give  him  the  veil,  who  gives  the  shame. 

But  if  it  be  the  frequent  fate 
Of  worst  faults  to  be  fortunate  ; 
If  all's  prescription  ;  and  proud  wrong 
Hearkens  not  to  an  humble  song  ; 
For  all  the  gallantry  of  him, 
Give  me  the  suffring  Seraphim. 


48  RICHARD  CRASHAW 

His  be  the  bravery  of  all  those  Bright  things. 
The  glowing  cheekes,  the  glistering  wings ; 
The  Rosy  hand,  the  radiant  Dart ; 
Leave  Her  alone  The  Flaming  Heart. 

Leave  her  that ;   and  thou  shalt  leave  her 
Not  one  loose  shaft  but  love's  whole  quiver. 
For  in  love's  feild  was  never  found 
A  nobler  weapon  then  a  Wound. 
Love's  passives  are  his  activ'st  part. 
The  wounded  is  the  wounding  heart. 
O  Heart !  the  sequall  poise  of  love's  both  parts 
Bigge  alike  with  wound  and  darts. 
Live  in  these  conquering  leaves ;   live  all  the  same  ; 
And  walk  through  all  tongues  one  triumphant  Flame. 
Live  here,  great  Heart ;   and  love  and  dy  and  kill ; 
And  bleed  and  wound  ;   and  yeild  and  conquer  still. 
Let  this  immortall  life  wherere  it  comes 
Walk  in  a  crowd  of  loves  and  Martyrdomes. 
Let  mystick  Deaths  wait  on't ;  and  wise  soules  be 
The  love-slain  wittnesses  of  this  life  of  thee. 
O  sweet  incendiary  !   shew  here  thy  art, 
Upon  this  carcasse  of  a  hard,  cold,  hart, 
Let  all  thy  scatter'd  shafts  of  light,  that  play 
Among  the  leaves  of  thy  larg  Books  of  day, 
Combin'd  against  this  Brest  at  once  break  in 
And  take  away  from  me  my  self  and  sin, 
This  gratious  Robbery  shall  thy  bounty  be  ; 
And  my  best  fortunes  such  fair  spoiles  of  me. 
O  thou  undanted  daughter  of  desires ! 
By  all  thy  dowr  of  Lights  and  Fires ; 
By  all  the  eagle  in  thee,  all  the  dove  ; 
By  all  thy  lives  and  deaths  of  love  ; 
By  thy  larg  draughts  of  intellectuall  day, 
And  by  thy  thirsts  of  love  more  large  then  they; 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  49 

By  all  thy  brim-filPd  Bowles  of  feirce  desire 

By  thy  last  Morning's  draught  of  liquid  fire  ; 

By  the  full  kingdome  of  that  finall  kisse 

That  seiz'd  thy  parting  Soul,  and  seal'd  thee  his ; 

By  all  the  heav'ns  thou  hast  in  him 

(Fair  sister  of  the  Seraphim  !) 

By  all  of  Him  we  have  in  Thee  ; 

Leave  nothing  of  my  Self  in  me. 

Let  me  so  read  thy  life,  that  I 

Unto  all  life  of  mine  may  dy. 


A  Song 

ERD,  when  the  sense  of  thy  sweet  grace 
Sends  up  my  soul  to  seek  thy  face. 
Thy  blessed  eyes  breed  such  desire, 
I  dy  in  love's  delicious  Fire. 

O  love,  I  am  thy  Sacrifice. 
Be  still  triumphant,  blessed  eyes. 
Still  shine  on  me,  fair  suns !   that  I 
Still  may  behold,  though  still  I  dy. 

Though  still  I  dy,  I  live  again  ; 
Still  longing  so  to  be  still  slain, 
So  gainfull  is  such  losse  of  breath. 
I  dy  even  in  desire  of  death. 

Still  live  in  me  this  loving  strife 
Of  living  Death  and  dying  Life. 
For  while  thou  sweetly  slayest  me 
Dead  to  my  selfe,  I  live  in  Thee. 


50  RICHARD  CRASHAW 


Prayer 

An  Ode  which  was  prefixed  to  a  little  Prayer-book  given 
to  a  young  Gentle-woman 

Ehere  a  little  volume,  but  great  Book 
A  nest  of  new-born  sweets ; 

Whose  native  fires  disdaining 

To  ly  thus  folded,  and  complaining 

Of  these  ignoble  sheets, 

Affect  more  comly  bands 

(Fair  one)  from  the  kind  hands 

And  confidently  look 

To  find  the  rest 
Of  a  rich  binding  in  your  Brest. 
It  is,  in  one  choise  handfull,  heavenn  ;  and  all 
Heavn's  Royall  host ;   incamp't  thus  small 
To  prove  that  true  schooles  use  to  tell, 
Ten  thousand  Angels  in  one  point  can  dwell. 
It  is  love's  great  artillery 
Which  here  contracts  itself,  and  comes  to  ly 
Close  couch't  in  their  white  bosom  :  and  from  thence 
As  from  a  snowy  fortresse  of  defence, 
Against  their  ghostly  foes  to  take  their  part, 
And  fortify  the  hold  of  their  chast  heart. 
It  is  an  armory  of  light 
Let  constant  use  but  keep  it  bright, 

You'l  find  it  yeilds 
To  holy  hands  and  humble  hearts 

More  swords  and  sheilds 
Then  sin  hath  snares,  or  Hell  hath  darts. 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  51 

Only  be  sure 

The  hands  be  pure 

That  hold  these  weapons ;    and  the  eyes 
Those  of  turtles,  chast  and  true  ; 

Wakefull  and  wise ; 
Here  is  a  freind  shall  fight  for  you, 
Hold  but  this  book  before  their  heart ; 
Let  prayer  alone  to  play  his  part, 

But  6  the  heart 

That  studyes  this  high  Art 

Must  be  a  sure  house-keeper  ; 

And  yet  no  sleeper. 

Dear  soul,  be  strong. 

Mercy  will  come  e're  long 
And  bring  his  bosom  fraught  with  blessings, 
Flowers  of  never  fading  graces 
To  make  immortall  dressings 
For  worthy  soules,  whose  wise  embraces 
Store  up  themselves  for  Him,  who  is  alone 
The  Spouse  of  Virgins  and  the  Virgin's  son. 
But  if  the  noble  Bridegroom,  when  he  come 
Shall  find  the  loytering  Heart  from  home  ; 

Leaving  her  chast  aboad 

To  gadde  abroad 

Among  the  gay  mates  of  the  god  of  flyes ; 
To  take  her  pleasure  and  to  play 
And  keep  the  devill's  holyday ; 
To  dance  th'sunshine  of  some  smiling 

But  beguiling 
Spheares  of  sweet  and  sugred  Lyes, 

Some  slippery  Pair 
Of  false,  perhaps  as  fair, 
Flattering  but  forswearing  eyes  ; 


52  RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Doubtlesse  some  other  heart 

Will  gett  the  start 
Mean  while,  and  stepping  in  before 
Will  take  possession  of  that  sacred  store 
Of  hidden  sweets  and  holy  ioyes. 
Words  which  are  not  heard  with  Eares 
(Those  tumultuous  shops  of  noise) 
Effectuall  wispers,  whose  still  voice 
The  soul  it  selfe  more  feeles  then  heares ; 
Amorous  languishments ;   luminous  trances ; 
Sights  which  are  not  seen  with  eyes ; 
Spirituall  and  soul-peircing  glances 
Whose  pure  and  subtil  lightning  flyes 
Home  to  the  heart,  and  setts  the  house  on  fire 
And  melts  it  down  in  sweet  desire 

Yet  does  not  stay 

To  ask  the  windows  leave  to  passe  that  way  ; 
Delicious  Deaths ;   soft  exalations 
Of  soul ;   dear  and  divine  annihilations ; 

A  thousand  unknown  rites 
Of  ioyes  and  rarefy'd  delights ; 
A  hundred  thousand  goods,  glories,  and  graces, 

And  many  a  mystick  thing 

Which  the  divine  embraces 
Of  the  deare  spouse  of  spirits  with  them  will  bring 

For  which  it  is  no  shame 
That  dull  mortality  must  not  know  a  name. 

Of  all  this  store 
Of  blessings  and  ten  thousand  more 

(If  when  he  come 

He  find  the  Heart  from  home) 

Doubtlesse  he  will  unload 

Himself  some  other  where, 

And  poure  abroad 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  53 

His  pretious  sweets 
On  the  fair  soul  whom  first  he  meets. 
O  fair,  6  fortunate  !    O  riche,  6  dear  ! 
O  happy  and  thrice  happy  she 

Selected  dove 

Who  ere  she  be, 

Whose  early  love 

With  winged  vowes 
Makes  hast  to  meet  her  morning  spouse 
And  close  with  his  immortall  kisses. 
Happy  indeed,  who  never  misses 
To  improve  that  pretious  hour, 

And  every  day 

Seize  her  sweet  prey 
All  fresh  and  fragrant  as  he  rises 
Dropping  with  a  baulmy  Showr 
A  delicious  dew  of  spices ; 
O  let  the  blissfull  heart  hold  fast 
Her  heavnly  arm-full,  she  shall  tast 
At  once  ten  thousand  paradises  ; 

She  shall  have  power 

To  rifle  and  deflour 

The  rich  and  roseall  spring  of  those  rare  sweets 
Which  with  a  swelling  bosome  there  she  meets 

Boundles  and  infinite 

Bottomles  treasures 
Of  pure  inebriating  pleasures 
Happy  proof  !   she  shal  discover 

What  ioy,  what  blisse, 
How  many  Heav'ns  at  once  it  is 
To  have  her  God  become  her  Lover. 


54 
ANDREW  MARVELL 

On  a  Drop  of  Dew 

SEE  how  the  orient  dew 
Shed  from  the  bosom  of  the  Morn 
Into  the  blowing  roses, 
Yet  careless  of  its  mansion  new, 
For  the  clear  region  where  'twas  born, 

Round  in  its  self  incloses  : 
And  in  its  little  globe's  extent 
Frames,  as  it  can,  its  native  element. 
How  it  the  purple  flow'r  does  slight, 

Scarce  touching  where  it  lyes, 

But  gazing  back  upon  the  skies, 

Shines  with  a  mournful  light, 

Like  its  own  tear, 

Because  so  long  divided  from  the  sphear. 
Restless  it  roules,  and  unsecure, 

Trembling,  lest  it  grow  impure  ; 
Till  the  warm  sun  pitty  its  pain 
And  to  the  skies  exhale  it  back  again. 
So  the  soul,  that  drop,  that  ray, 
Of  the  clear  fountain  of  eternal  day, 
(Could  it  within  the  humane  flow'r  be  seen) 
Rememb'ring  still  its  former  height, 
Shuns  the  sweat  leaves  and  blossoms  green, 
And,  recollecting  its  own  light, 
Does  in  its  pure  and  circling  thoughts  express 
The  greater  heaven  in  an  heaven  less. 
In  how  coy  a  figure  wound, 
Every  way  it  turns  away  ; 
(So  the  world-excluding  round) 
Yet  receiving  in  the  day. 


1621-1678 


ANDREW  MARVELL  55 

Dark  beneath,  but  bright  above, 

Here  disdaining,  there  in  love. 

How  loose  and  easie  hence  to  go  ; 

How  girt  and  ready  to  ascend  ; 

Moving  but  on  a  point  below, 

It  all  about  does  upwards  bend. 
Such  did  the  manna's  sacred  dew  destil, 
White  and  intire,  though  congeal'd  and  chill ; 
Congeal'd  on  Earth  ;   but  does,  dissolving,  run 
Into  the  glories  of  th'  almighty  sun. 


The  Coronet 

WHEN  for  the  thorns  with  which  I  long,  too  long, 
With  many  a  piercing  wound, 
My  Saviour's  head  have  crowned, 

I  seek  with  garlands  to  redress  that  wrong ; 

Through  every  garden,  every  mead, 

I  gather  flow'rs  (my  fruits  are  only  flow'rs), 
Dismantling  all  the  fragrant  towers 

That  once  adorn'd  my  shepherdesse's  head  : 

And  now,  when  I  have  summ'd  up  all  my  store, 
Thinking  (so  I  my  self  deceive) 
So  rich  a  chaplet  thence  to  weave 

As  never  yet  the  King  of  Glory  wore, 
Alas !   I  find  the  Serpent  old, 
That,  twining  in  his  speckled  breast 
About  the  flowers  disguis'd,  does  fold, 
With  wreaths  of  fame  and  interest. 

Ah,  foolish  man,  that  would'st  debase  with  them 

And  mortal  glory,  Heaven's  diadem  ! 

But  Thou  who  only  could'st  the  Serpent  tame, 

Either  his  slipp'ry  knots  at  once  untie, 


56  ANDREW  MARVELL 

And  disintangle  all  his  winding  snare  ; 
Or  shatter  too  with  him  my  curious  frame, 
And  let  these  wither — so  that  he  may  die — 
Though  set  with  skill,  and  chosen  out  with  care  ; 
That  they,  while  Thou  on  both  their  spoils  dost  tread, 
May  crown  Thy  feet,  that  could  not  crown  Thy  head. 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 

1621-1695 
The  Search 

EWE,  leave,  thy  gadding  thoughts ; 
Who  Pores 
and  spies 
Still  out  of  Doores, 

descries 
Within  them  nought. 

The  skinne,  and  shell  of  things 

Though  faire, 

are  not 
Thy  wish,  nor  pray'r, 

but  got 
By  meer  Despair 

of  wings. 

To  rack  old  Elements, 
or  Dust 
and  say 
Sure  here  he  must 

needs  stay, 
Is  not  the  way, 

nor  just. 

Search  well  another  world  ;   who  studies  this, 
Travels  in  Clouds,  seeks  Manna,  where  none  is. 


HENRY  VAUGHAN  57 

The  Retreat e 

HAPPY  those  early  dayes !  when  I 
Shin'd  in  my  Angell-infancy. 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought 
But  a  white,  Celestiall  thought ; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walkt  above 
A  mile,  or  two,  from  my  first  love, 
And  looking  back  (at  that  short  space,) 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright-face* 
When  on  some  gilded  Cloud,  orjlowre 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  houre, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity  ; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  Conscience  with  a  sinfull  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispence 
A  sev'rall  sinne  to  ev'ry  sence, 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dresse 
Bright  shootes  of  everlastingnesse. 

O  how  I  long  to  travell  back 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain  e, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  traine, 
From  whence  th'  Inlightned  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  Palme  trees  ; 
But  (ah  !)  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way. 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move, 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn 
In  that  state  I  came  return. 


58  HENRY  VAUGHAN 

The  Morning  Watch 

OJOYES  !   Infinite  sweetnes !   with  what  flowres, 
And  shoots  of  glory,  my  soul  breakes,  and  buds  ! 

All  the  long  houres 

Of  night,  and  Rest, 

Through  the  still  shrouds 

Of  sleep,  and  Clouds, 
This  Dew  fell  on  my  Breast ; 

O  how  it  Blonds, 

And  Spirits  all  my  Earth  !   heark  !    In  what  Rings, 
And  Hymning  Circulations  the  quick  world 

Awakes,  and  sings ; 

The  rising  winds, 

And  falling  springs, 

Birds,  beasts,  all  things 
Adore  him  in  their  kinds. 

Thus  all  is  hurl'd 

In  sacred  Hymnes,  and  Order,  The  great  Chime 
And  Symphony  of  nature.    Prayer  is 

The  world  in  tune, 

A  spirit-voyce, 

And  vocall  joyes 
Whose  Eccho  is  heav'ns  blisse. 

O  let  me  climbe 

When  I  lye  down  !    The  Pious  soul  by  night 
Is  like  a  clouded  starre,  whose  beames  though  sed 

To  shed  their  light 

Under  some  Cloud 

Yet  are  above, 

And  shine,  and  move 
Beyond  that  mistie  shrowd. 

So  in  my  Bed 

That  Curtain'd  grave,  though  sleep,  like  ashes,  hide 
My  lamp,  and  life,  both  shall  in  thee  abide. 


HENRY  VAUGHAN  59 

Rules  and  Lessons 

WHEN  first  thy  Eies  unveil,  give  thy  Soul  leave 
To  do  the  like  ;   our  Bodies  but  forerun 
The  spirits  duty  ;  True  hearts  spread,  and  heave 
Unto  their  God,  as  flow'rs  do  to  the  Sun. 

Give  him  thy  first  thoughts  then  ;  so  shalt  thou  keep 
Him  company  all  day,  and  in  him  sleep.  .  .  . 

Walk  with  thy  fellow-creatures  :   note  the  hush 
And  whispers  amongst  them.    There  's  not  a  Spring, 
Or  Leafe  but  hath  his  Morning-hymn  ;  Each  Bush 
And  Oak  doth  know  /  AM  ;  canst  thou  not  sing  ? 
O  leave  thy  Cares,  and  follies  !   go  this  way 
And  thou  art  sure  to  prosper  all  the  day.  .  .  . 

Spend  not  an  hour  so,  as  to  weep  another, 
For  tears  are  not  thine  own  ;   If  thou  giv'st  words 
Dash  not  thy  friend,  nor  Heaven  ;  O  smother 
A  vip'rous  thought  ;   some  Syllables  are  Swords. 

Unbitted  tongues  are  in  their  penance  double, 
They  shame  their  owners,  and  the  hearers  trouble.  .  .  . 

When  Seasons  change,  then  lay  before  thine  Eys 
His  wondrous  Method  ;   mark  the  various  Scenes 
In  heav'n  ;  Hail,  Thunder,  Rain-bows,  Snow,  and  Ice, 
Calmes,  Tempests,  Light,  and  darknes  by  his  means  ; 

Thou  canst  not  misse  his  Praise  ;    Each  tree,  herb, 
jlowre 

Are  shadows  of  his  wisedome,  and  his  Pow'r. 


The 

SAW  Eternity  the  other  night 

Like  a  great  Ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 
All  calm,  as  it  was  bright, 


6o 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


And  round  beneath  it,  Time  in  hours,  days,  years 

Driv'n  by  the  spheres 
Like  a  vast  shadow  mov'd,  In  which  the  world 

And  all  her  train  were  hurl'd ; 
The  doting  Lover  in  his  queintest  strain 

Did  their  Complain, 
Neer  him,  his  Lute,  his  fancy,  and  his  flights, 

Wits  sour  delights, 
With  gloves,  and  knots  the  silly  snares  of  pleasure 

Yet  his  dear  Treasure 
All  scatter'd  lay,  while  he  his  eys  did  pour 

Upon  a  flowr. 

The  darksome  States-man  hung  with  weights  and  woe 
Like  a  thick  midnight-fog  mov'd  there  so  slow 

He  did  nor  stay,  nor  go  ; 
Condemning  thoughts  (like  sad  Ecclipses)  scowl 

Upon  his  soul, 
And  Clouds  of  crying  witnesses  without 

Pursued  him  with  one  shout. 
Yet  dig'd  the  Mole,  and  lest  his  ways  be  found 

Workt  under  ground, 
Where  he  did  Clutch  his  prey,  but  one  did  see 

That  policie, 
Churches  and  altars  fed  him,  Perjuries 

Were  gnats  and  flies, 
It  rain'd  about  him  bloud  and  tears,  but  he 

Drank  them  as  free. 

The  fearfull  miser  on  a  heap  of  rust 

Sate  pining  all  his  life  there,  did  scarce  trust 

His  own  hands  with  the  dust, 
Yet  would  not  place  one  peece  above,  but  lives 
In  feare  of  theeves. 


HENRY  VAUGHAN  61 

Thousands  there  were  as  frantick  as  himself 

And  hug'd  each  one  his  pelf, 
The  down-right  Epicure  plac'd  heav'n  in  sense 

And  scornd  pretence 
While  others  slipt  into  a  wide  Excesse 

Said  little  lesse  ; 
The  weaker  sort  sKght,  triviall  wares  Inslave 

Who  think  them  brave, 
And  poor,  despised  truth  sate  Counting  by 

Their  victory. 

Yet  some,  who  all  this  while  did  weep  and  sing, 
And  sing,  and  weep,  soar'd  up  into  the  Ring, 

But  most  would  use  no  wing. 
O  fools  (said  I,)  thus  to  prefer  dark  night 

Before  true  light, 
To  live  in  grots,  and  caves,  and  hate  the  day 

Because  it  shews  the  way, 
The  way  which  from  this  dead  and  dark  abode 

Leads  up  to  God, 
A  way  where  you  might  tread  the  Sun,  and  be 

More  bright  than  he. 
But  as  I  did  their  madnes  so  discusse 

One  whisper'd  thus, 
This  Ring  the  Bride-groome  did  for  none  provide 

But  for  his  bride. 


The  Knot 

BRIGHT  Queen  of  Heaven  !     Gods  Virgin  Spouse 
The  glad  worlds  blessed  maid  ! 
Whose  beauty  tyed  life  to  thy  house, 
And  brought  us  saving  ayd. 


62  HENRY  VAUGHAN 

Thou  art  the  true  Loves-knot ;   by  thee 

God  is  made  our  Allie, 
And  mans  inferior  Essence  he 

With  his  did  dignifie. 

For  Coalescent  by  that  Band 

We  are  his  body  grown, 
Nourished  with  favors  from  his  hand 

Whom  for  our  head  we  own. 

And  such  a  Knot,  what  arm  dares  loose, 
What  life,  what  death  can  sever  r 

Which  us  in  him,  and  him  in  us 
United  keeps  for  ever. 


The  Dwelling-place 

WHAT  happy,  secret  fountain, 
Fair  shade,  or  mountain, 
Whose  undiscover'd  virgin  glory 
Boasts  it  this  day,  though  not  in  story, 
Was  then  thy  dwelling  ?   did  some  cloud 
Fix'd  to  a  Tent,  descend  and  shrowd 
My  distrest  Lord  ?  or  did  a  star, 
Becken'd  by  thee,  though  high  and  far, 
In  sparkling  smiles  haste  gladly  down 
To  lodge  light,  and  increase  her  own  ? 
My  dear,  dear  God  !     I  do  not  know 
What  lodgd  thee  then,  nor  where,  nor  how ; 
But  I  am  sure,  thou  dost  now  come 
Oft  to  a  narrow,  homely  room, 
Where  thou  too  hast  but  the  least  part, 
My  God,  I  mean  my  sinful  heart. 


HENRY  VAUGHAN  63 

Quickness 

FALSE  life  !   a  foil  and  no  more,  when 
Wilt  thou  be  gone  ? 
Thou  foul  deception  of  all  men 
That  would  not  have  the  true  come  on. 

Thou  art  a  Moon-like  toil ;  a  blinde 

Self-posing  state  ; 

A  dark  contest  of  waves  and  winde  ; 
A  meer  tempestuous  debate. 

Life  is  a  fix'd,  discerning  light, 

A  knowing -Joy ; 

No  .chance,  or  fit  :  but  ever  bright, 
And  calm  and  full,  yet  doth  not  cloy. 

'Tis  such  a  blissful  thing,  that  still 

Doth  vivifie, 

And  shine  and  smile,  and  hath  the  skill 
To  please  without  Eternity. 

Thou  art  a  toylsom  Mole,  or  less 

A  moving  mist 

But  life  is,  what  none  can  express,  / 

A  quickness^  which  my  God  hath  kist. 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

? 1636-1674 

Wonder 

HOW  like  an  Angel  came  I  down  ! 
How  bright  are  all  things  here  ! 
When  first  among  His  works  I  did  appear 
O  how  their  glory  me  did  crown  ! 


64  THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

The  world  resembled  His  Eternity, 

In  which  my  soul  did  walk  ; 
And  every  thing  that  I  did  see 
Did  with  me  talk. 

The  skies  in  their  magnificence, 

The  lively,  lovely  air, 
Oh  how  divine,  how  soft,  how  sweet,  how  fair  ! 

The  stars  did  entertain  my  sense, 
And  all  the  works  of  God,  so  bright  and  pure, 

So  rich  and  great  did  seem, 
As  if  they  ever  must  endure 
In  my  esteem. 

A  native  health  and  innocence 
Within  my  bones  did  grow, 
And  while  my  God  did  all  his  Glories  show, 

I  felt  a  vigour  in  my  sense 
That  was  all  Spirit.     I  within  did  flow 

With  seas  of  life,  like  wine  ; 
I  nothing  in  the  world  did  know 
But  'twas  divine. 

Harsh  ragged  objects  were  concealed, 
^     Oppressions,  tears  and  cries, 
Sins,  griefs,  complaints,  dissensions,  weeping  eyes 

Were  hid,  and  only  things  revealed 
Which  heavenly  Spirits  and  the  Angels  prize. 

The  state  of  Innocence 
And  bliss,  not  trades  and  poverties, 
Did  fill  my  sense. 

The  streets  were  paved  with  golden  stones, 

The  boys  and  girls  were  mine, 

Oh  how  did  all  their  lovely  faces  shine  ! 

The  sons  of  men  were  holy  ones, 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE  65 

In  joy  and  beauty  they  appeared  to  me, 

And  every  thing  which  here  I  found, 
While  like  an  Angel  I  did  see, 
Adorned  the  ground. 

Rich  diamond  and  pearl  and  gold 

In  every  place  was  seen  ; 
Rare  splendours,  yellow,  blue,  red,  white  and  green, 

Mine  eyes  did  everywhere  behold. 
Great  wonders  clothed  with  glory  did  appear, 

Amazement  was  my  bliss, 
That  and  my  wealth  was  everywhere  ; 
No  joy  to  this ! 

Cursed  and  devised  proprieties, 

With  envy,  avarice 
And  fraud,  those  fiends  that  spoil  even  Paradise, 

Flew  from  the  splendour  of  mine  eyes, 
And  so  did  hedges,  ditches,  limits,  bounds, 

I  dreamed  not  aught  of  those, 
But  wandered  over  all  men's  grounds, 
And  found  repose. 

Proprieties  themselves  were  mine, 

And  hedges  ornaments ; 
Walls,  boxes,  coffers,  and  their  rich  contents 
Did  not  divide  my  joys,  but  all  combine. 
Clothes,  ribbons,  jewels,  laces,  I  esteemed 

My  joys  by  others  worn  : 
For  me  they  all  to  wear  them  seemed 
When  I  was  born. 


66  THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

The  Frisian 

FLIGHT  is  but  the  preparative.     The  sight 
Is  deep  and  infinite, 
Ah  me  !   'tis  all  the  glory,  love,  light,  space, 

Joy,  beauty  and  variety 
That  doth  adorn  the  Godhead's  dwelling-place ; 

'Tis  all  that  eye  can  see. 
Even  trades  themselves  seen  in  celestial  light, 
And  cares  and  sins  and  woes  are  bright. 

Order  the  beauty  even  of  beauty  is, 

It  is  the  rule  of  bliss, 
The  very  life  and  form  and  cause  of  pleasure  ; 

Which  if  we  do  not  understand, 
Ten  thousand  heaps  of  vain  confused  treasure 

Will  but  oppress  the  land. 
In  blessedness  itself  we  that  shall  miss, 
Being  blind,  which  is  the  cause  of  bliss. 

First  then  behold  the  world  as  thine,  and  well 
Note  that  where  thou  dost  dwell. 

See  all  the  beauty  of  the  spacious  case, 
Lift  up  thy  pleas'd  and  ravisht  eyes, 

Admire  the  glory  of  the  Heavenly  place 
And  all  its  blessings  prize. 

That  sight  well  seen  thy  spirit  shall  prepare, 
The  first  makes  all  the  other  rare. 

Men's  woes  shall  be  but  foils  unto  thy  bliss, 

Thou  once  enjoying  this  : 
Trades  shall  adorn  and  beautify  the  earth, 

Their  ignorance  shall  make  thee  bright ; 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE  67 

Were  not  their  griefs  Democritus  his  mirth  ? 

Their  faults  shall  keep  thee  right : 
All  shall  be  thine,  because  they  all  conspire 
To  feed  and  make  thy  glory  higher. 

To  see  a  glorious  fountain  and  an  end, 

To  see  all  creatures  tend 
To  thy  advancements,  and  so  sweetly  close 

In  thy  repose  :  to  see  them  shine 
In  use,  in  worth,  in  service,  and  even  foes 

Among  the  rest  made  thine  : 
To  see  all  these  unite  at  once  in  thee 
Is  to  behold  felicity. 

To  see  the  fountain  is  a  blessed  thing, 

It  is  to  see  the  King 
Of  Glory  face  to  face  :  but  yet  the  end, 

The  glorious,  wondrous  end  is  more  ; 
And  yet  the  fountain  there  we  comprehend, 

The  spring  we  there  adore  : 
For  in  the  end  the  fountain  best  is  shown, 
As  by  effects  the  cause  is  known. 

From  one,  to  one,  in  one  to  see  all  things, 

To  see  the  King  of  Kings 
But  once  in  two  ;   to  see  His  endless  treasures 

Made  all  mine  own,  myself  the  end 
Of  all  his  labours  !     'Tis  the  life  of  pleasures ! 

To  see  myself  His  friend  ! 
Who  all  things  finds  conjoined  in  Him  alone, 
Sees  and  enjoys  the  Holy  One. 


68  THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

The  Rapture 

SWEET  Infancy  ! 
O  fire  of  heaven  i   O  sacred  Light 
How  fair  and  bright, 
How  great  am  I, 
Whom  all  the  world  doth  magnify  ! 

O  Heavenly  Joy  ! 
O  great  and  sacred  blessedness 

Which  I  possess ! 

So  great  a  joy 
Who  did  into  my  arms  convey  ? 

From  God  above 
Being  sent,  the  Heavens  me  enflame  : 

To  praise  his  Name 

The  stars  do  move  ! 
The  burning  sun  doth  shew  His  love. 

O  how  divine 

Am  I !    To  all  this  sacred  wealth, 
This  life  and  health, 
Who  raised  ?    Who  mine 

Did  make  the  same  ?    What  hand  divine  ? 


Dumbness 

SURE  Man  was  born  to  meditate  on  things, 
And  to  contemplate  the  eternal  springs 
Of  God  and  Nature,  glory,  bliss,  and  pleasure  ; 
That  life  and  love  might  be  his  Heavenly  treasure  ; 
And  therefore  speechless  made  at  first,  that  He 
Might  in  himself  profoundly  busied  be  : 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE  69 

And  not  vent  out,  before  he  hath  ta'en  in 
Those  antidotes  that  guard  his  soul  from  sin. 

Wise  Nature  made  him  deaf,  too,  that  He  might 
Not  be  disturbed,  while  he  doth  take  delight 
In  inward  things,  nor  be  depraved  with  tongues, 
Nor  injured  by  the  errors  and  the  wrongs 
That  mortal  words  convey.    For  sin  and  death 
Are  most  infused  by  accursed  breath, 
That  flowing  from  corrupted  entrails,  bear 
Those  hidden  plagues  which  souls  may  justly  fear. 

This,  my  dear  friends,  this  was  my  blessed  case  ; 
For  nothing  spoke  to  me  but  the  fair  face 
Of  Heaven  and  Earth,  before  myself  could  speak, 
/  then  my  Bliss  did,  when  my  silence,  break. 
My  non-intelligence  of  human  words 
Ten  thousand  pleasures  unto  me  affords ; 
For  while  I  knew  not  what  they  to  me  said, 
Before  their  souls  were  into  mine  conveyed, 
Before  that  living  vehicle  of  wind 
Could  breathe  into  me  their  infected  mind, 
Before  my  thoughts  were  leavened  with  theirs,  before 
There  any  mixture  was  ;   the  Holy  Door, 
Or  gate  of  souls  was  close,  and  mine  being  one 
Within  itself  to  me  alone  was  known. 
Then  did  I  dwell  within  a  world  of  light, 
Distinct  and  separate  from  all  men's  sight, 
Where  I  did  feel  strange  thoughts,  and  such  things  see 
That  were,  or  seemed,  only  revealed  to  me, 
There  I  saw  all  the  world  enjoyed  by  one  ; 
There  I  was  in  the  world  myself  alone  ; 
No  business  serious  seemed  but  one  ;  no  work 
But  one  was  found  ;  and  that  did  in  me  lurk. 

D'ye  ask  me  what  ?    It  was  with  clearer  eyes 
To  see  all  creatures  full  of  Deities ; 


70  THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

Especially  one's  self  :  And  to  admire 

The  satisfaction  of  all  true  desire  : 

'Twas  to  be  pleased  with  all  that  God  hath  done  ; 

'Twas  to  enjoy  even  all  beneath  the  sun  : 

'Twas  with  a  steady  and  immediate  sense 

To  feel  and  measure  all  the  excellence 

Of  things ;   'twas  to  inherit  endless  treasure, 

And  to  be  rilled  with  everlasting  pleasure  : 

To  reign  in  silence,  and  to  sing  alone, 

To  see,  love,  covet,  have,  enjoy  and  praise,  in  one  ; 

To  prize  and  to  be  ravished  ;  to  be  true, 

Sincere  and  single  in  a  blessed  view 

Of  all  His  gifts.    Thus  was  I  pent  within 

A  fort,  impregnable  to  any  sin  : 

Until  the  avenues  being  open  laid 

Whole  legions  entered,  and  the  forts  betrayed  : 

Before  which  time  a  pulpit  in  my  mind, 

A  temple  and  a  teacher  I  did  find, 

With  a  large  text  to  comment  on.    No  ear 

But  eyes  themselves  were  all  the  hearers  there, 

And  every  stone,  and  every  star  a  tongue, 

And  every  gale  of  wind  a  curious  song. 

The  Heavens  were  an  oracle,  and  spake 

Divinity  :  the  Earth  did  undertake 

The  office  of  a  priest ;  and  I  being  dumb 

(Nothing  besides  was  dumb),  all  things  did  come 

With  voices  and  instructions ;  but  when  I 

Had  gained  a  tongue,  their  power  began  to  die. 

Mine  ears  let  other  noises  in,  not  theirs, 

A  noise  disturbing  all  my  songs  and  prayers. 

My  foes  pulled  down  the  temple  to  the  ground  ; 

They  my  adoring  soul  did  deeply  wound 

And  casting  that  into  a  swoon,  destroyed 

The  Oracle,  and  all  I  there  enjoyed  : 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE  71 

And  having  once  inspired  me  with  a  sense 
Of  foreign  vanities,  they  march  out  thence 
In  troops  that  cover  and  despoil  my  coasts, 
Being  the  invisible,  most  hurtful  hosts. 

Yet  the  first  words  mine  infancy  did  hear, 
The  things  which  in  my  dumbness  did  appear, 
Preventing  all  the  rest,  got  such  a  root 
Within  my  heart,  and  stick  so  close  unto  't, 
It  may  be  trampled  on,  but  still  will  grow 
And  nutriment  to  soil  itself  will  owe. 
The  first  Impressions  are  Immortal  all, 
And  let  mine  enemies  hoop,  cry,  roar,  or  call, 
Yet  these  will  whisper  if  I  will  but  hear, 
And  penetrate  the  heart,  if  not  the  ear. 

My  Spirit 

MY  naked  simple  Life  was  I ; 
That  Act  so  strongly  shin'd 
Upon  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  sky, 
It  was  the  substance  of  my  mind  ; 

The  sense  itself  was  I. 
I  felt  no  dross  nor  matter  in  my  soul, 
No  brims  nor  borders,  such  as  in  a  bowl 
We  see.    My  essence  was  capacity, 
That  felt  all  things ; 
The  thought  that  springs 
Therefrom  's  itself.    It  hath  no  other  wings 
To  spread  abroad,  nor  eyes  to  see, 
Nor  hands  distinct  to  feel, 

Nor  knees  to  kneel ; 
But  being  simple  like  the  Deity 
In  its  own  centre  is  a  sphere 
Not  shut  up  here,  but  everywhere. 


72  THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

It  acts  not  from  a  centre  to 

Its  object  as  remote, 
But  present  is  when  it  doth  view, 
Being  with  the  Being  it  doth  note 

Whatever  it  doth  do. 
It  doth  not  by  another  engine  work, 
But  by  itself  ;  which  in  the  act  doth  lurk. 
Its  essence  is  transformed  into  a  true 
And  perfect  act. 
And  so  exact 

Hath  God  appeared  in  this  mysterious  fact, 
That  'tis  all  eye,  all  act,  all  sight, 
And  what  it  please  can  be, 

Not  only  see, 

Or  do  ;  for  'tis  more  voluble  than  light, 
Which  can  put  on  ten  thousand  forms, 
Being  cloth'd  with  what  itself  adorns. 

This  made  me  present  evermore 

With  whatsoe'er  I  saw. 
An  object,  if  it  were  before 
My  eye,  was  by  Dame  Nature's  law, 

Within  my  soul.    Her  store 
Was  all  at  once  within  me  ;  all  Her  treasures 
Were  my  immediate  and  internal  pleasures, 
Substantial  joys,  which  did  inform  my  mind. 
With  all  she  wrought 
My  soul  was  fraught, 
And  every  object  in  my  heart  a  thought 
Begot,  or  was ;   I  could  not  tell, 
Whether  the  things  did  there 

Themselves  appear, 

Which  in  my  Spirit  truly  seem'd  to  dwell ; 
Or  whether  my  conforming  mind 
Were  not  even  all  that  therein  shin'd. 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

But  yet  of  this  I  was  most  sure, 

That  at  the  utmost  length, 
(So  worthy  was  it  to  endure) 
My  soul  could  best  express  its  strength. 

It  was  so  quick  and  pure, 
That  all  my  mind  was  wholly  everywhere, 
Whate'er  it  saw,  'twas  ever  wholly  there  ; 
The  sun  ten  thousand  legions  off,  was  nigh  : 
The  utmost  star, 
Though  seen  from  far, 
Was  present  in  the  apple  of  my  eye. 
There  was  my  sight,  my  life,  my  sense, 
My  substance,  and  my  mind  ; 

My  spirit  shin'd 

Even  there,  not  by  a  transient  influence  : 
The  act  was  immanent,  yet  there  : 
The  thing  remote,  yet  felt  even  here. 

O  Joy  !    O  wonder  and  delight ! 

O  sacred  mystery  ! 
My  Soul  a  Spirit  infinite  ! 
An  image  of  the  Deity  ! 

A  pure  substantial  light ! 

That  Being  greatest  which  doth  nothing  seem  ! 
Why,  'twas  my  all,  I  nothing  did  esteem 
But  that  alone.    A  strange  mysterious  sphere  ! 
A  deep  abyss 
That  sees  and  is 

The  only  proper  place  of  Heavenly  Bliss. 
To  its  Creator  'tis  so  near 
In  love  and  excellence, 

In  life  and  sense, 

In  greatness,  worth,  and  nature  ;  and  so  dear, 
In  it,  without  hyperbole, 
The  Son  and  friend  of  God  we  see. 


73 


74 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE 


A  strange  extended  orb  of  Joy, 

Proceeding  from  within, 
Which  did  on  every  side,  convey 
Itself,  and  being  nigh  of  kin 

To  God  did  every  way 
Dilate  itself  even  in  an  instant,  and 
Like  an  indivisible  centre  stand, 
At  once  surrounding  all  eternity. 
'Twas  not  a  sphere, 
Yet  did  appear, 

One  infinite.    'Twas  somewhat  every  where, 
And  though  it  had  a  power  to  see 
Far  more,  yet  still  it  shin'd 

And  was  a  mind 
Exerted,  for  it  saw  Infinity. 

'Twas  not  a  sphere,  but  'twas  a  might 

Invisible,  and  yet  gave  light. 

O  wondrous  Self  !   O  sphere  of  light, 

O  sphere  of  joy  most  fair 
O  act,  O  power  infinite  ; 
O  subtile  and  unbounded  air  ! 

O  living  orb  of  sight ! 

Thou  which  within  me  art,  yet  me  !    Thou  eye, 
And  temple  of  His  whole  infinity  ! 

O  what  a  world  art  Thou  !    A  world  within  ! 
All  things  appear, 
All  objects  are 

Alive  in  Thee  !    Supersubstantial,  rare, 

Above  themselves,  and  nigh  of  kin 

To  those  pure  things  we  find 

In  His  great  mind 

Who  made  the  world  !    Tho'  now  eclipsed  by  sin 
There  they  are  useful  and  divine, 
Exalted  there  they  ought  to  shine. 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE  75 

Amendment 

all  things  should  be  mine, 
This  makes  His  bounty  most  divine. 
But  that  they  all  more  rich  should  be, 
And  far  more  brightly  shine, 

As  used  by  me  ; 

It  ravishes  my  soul  to  see  the  end, 
To  which  this  work  so  wonderful  doth  tend. 

That  we  should  make  the  skies 
More  glorious  far  before  Thine  eyes 
Than  Thou  didst  make  them,  and  even  Thee 
Far  more  Thy  works  to  prize, 

As  used  they  be 

Than  as  they're  made,  is  a  stupendous  work, 
Wherein  Thy  wisdom  mightily  doth  lurk. 

Thy  greatness,  and  Thy  love, 
Thy  power,  in  this,  my  joy  doth  move  ; 
Thy  goodness,  and  felicity 
In  this  exprest  above 

.All  praise  I  see  : 

While  Thy  great  Godhead  over  all  doth  reign, 
And  such  an  end  in  such  a  sort  attain. 

What  bound  may  we  assign, 
O  God,  to  any  work  of  Thine  ! 
Their  endlessness  discovers  Thee 
In  all  to  be  divine  ; 

A  Deity, 

That  will  for  evermore  exceed  the  end 
Of  all  that  creature's  wit  can  comprehend. 


76  THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

Am  I  a  glorious  spring 
Of  joys  and  riches  to  my  King  ? 
Are  men  made  Gods  ?    And  may  they  see 
So  wonderful  a  thing 

As  God  in  me  ? 

And  is  my  soul  a  mirror  that  must  shine 
Even  like  the  sun  and  be  far  more  divine  ? 

Thy  Soul,  O  God,  doth  prize 
The  seas,  the  earth,  our  souls,  the  skies ; 
As  we  return  the  same  to  Thee 

They  more  delight  Thine  eyes, 

And  sweeter  be 

As  unto  Thee  we  offer  up  the  same, 
Than  as  to  us  from  Thee  at  first  they  came. 

O  how  doth  Sacred  Love 
His  gifts  refine,  exalt,  improve  ! 
Our  love  to  creatures  makes  them  be 
In  Thine  esteem  above 
Themselves  to  Thee  ! 
O  here  His  goodness  evermore  admire  ! 
He  made  our  souls  to  make  His  creatures  higher. 

The  Anticipation 

MY  contemplation  dazzles  in  the  End 
Of  all  I  comprehend, 
And  soars  above  all  heights, 
Diving  into  the  depths  of  all  delights. 
Can  He  become  the  End, 
To  whom  all  creatures  tend, 
Who  is  the  Father  of  all  Infinites  ? 
Then  may  He  benefit  receive  from  things, 
And  be  not  Parent  only  of  all  springs. 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE  77 

The  End  doth  want  the  means,  and  is  the  cause, 

Whose  sake,  by  Nature's  laws, 

Is  that  for  which  they  are. 
Such  sands,  such  dangerous  rocks  we  must  beware  : 

From  all  Eternity 

A  perfect  Deity 

Most  great  and  blessed  He  doth  still  appear  ; 
His  essence  perfect  was  in  all  its  features, 
He  ever  blessed  in  His  joys  and  creatures. 

From  everlasting  He  those  joys  did  need, 

And  all  those  joys  proceed 

From  Him  eternally. 
From  everlasting  His  felicity 

Complete  and  perfect  was, 

Whose  bosom  is  the  glass, 
Wherein  we  all  things  everlasting  see. 
His  name  is  Now,  His  Nature  is  For-ever  : 
None  can  His  creatures  from  their  Maker  sever. 

The  End  in  Him  from  everlasting  is 

The  fountain  of  all  bliss : 

From  everlasting  it 
Efficient  was,  and  influence  did  emit, 

That  caused  all.    Before 

The  world,  we  do  adore 
This  glorious  End.    Because  all  benefit 
From  it  proceeds  :   both  are  the  very  same, 
The  End  and  Fountain  differ  but  in  Name. 

That  so  the  End  should  be  the  very  Spring 

Of  every  glorious  thing  ; 

And  that  which  seemeth  last, 
The  fountain  and  the  cause  ;  attained  so  fast 


78  THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

That  it  was  first ;  and  mov'd 

The  Efficient,  who  so  lov'd 
All  worlds  and  made  them  for  the  sake  of  this ; 
It  shews  the  End  complete  before,  and  is 
A  perfect  token  of  His  perfect  bliss. 

The  End  complete,  the  means  must  needs  be  so, 

By  which  we  plainly  know, 

From  all  Eternity 
The  means  whereby  God  is,  must  perfect  be. 

God  is  Himself  the  means 

Whereby  He  doth  exist : 

And  as  the  Sun  by  shining  's  cloth'd  with  beams, 
So  from  Himself  to  all  His  glory  streams, 
Who  is  a  Sun,  yet  what  Himself  doth  list. 

His  endless  wants  and  His  enjoyments  be 

From  all  Eternity 

Immutable  in  Him  : 
They  are  His  joys  before  the  Cherubim. 

His  wants  appreciate  all, 

And  being  infinite, 
Permit  no  being  to  be  mean  or  small 
That  He  enjoys,  or  is  before  His  sight. 
His  satisfactions  do  His  wants  delight. 

Wants  are  the  fountains  of  Felicity ; 

No  joy  could  ever  be 

Were  there  no  want.    No  bliss, 
No  sweetness  perfect,  were  it  not  for  this. 

Want  is  the  greatest  pleasure 

Because  it  makes  all  treasure. 
O  what  a  wonderful  profound  abyss 
Is  God  !    In  whom  eternal  wants  and  treasures 
Are  more  delightful  since  they  both  are  pleasures. 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE  79 

He  infinitely  wanteth  all  His  joys  ; 

(No  want  the  soul  e'er  cloys.) 

And  all  thqse  wanted  pleasures 
He  infinitely  hath.    What  endless  measures, 

What  heights  and  depths  may  we 

In  His  felicity 

Conceive  !    Whose  very  wants  are  endless  pleasures. 
His  life  in  wants  and  joys  is  infinite, 
And  both  are  felt  as  His  Supreme  Delight. 

He  's  not  like  us  ;  possession  doth  not  cloy, 

Nor  sense  of  want  destroy  ; 

Both  always  are  together  ; 
No  force  can  either  from  the  other  sever. 

Yet  there  's  a  space  between 

That 's  endless.    Both  are  seen 
Distinctly  still,  and  both  are  seen  for  ever. 
As  soon  as  e'er  He  wanteth  all  His  bliss, 
His  bliss,  tho'  everlasting,  in  Him  is. 

His  Essence  is  all  Act  :  He  did  that  He 

All  Act  might  always  be. 

His  nature  burns  like  fire  ; 
His  goodness  infinitely  does  desire 

To  be  by  all  possesst ; 

His  love  makes  others  blest. 
It  is  the  glory  of  His  high  estate, 
And  that  which  I  for  evermore  admire, 
He  is  an  Act  that  doth  communicate. 

From  all  to  all  Eternity  He  is 

That  Act :  an  Act  of  bliss : 

Wherein  all  bliss  to  all 
That  will  receive  the  same,  or  on  Him  call, 


8o  THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

Is  freely  given  :  from  whence 

'Tis  easy  even  to  sense 
To  apprehend  that  all  receivers  are 
In  Him,  all  gifts,  all  joys,  all  eyes,  even  all 
At  once,  that  ever  will  or  shall  appear. 

He  is  the  means  of  them,  they  not  of  Him. 

The  Holy  Cherubim, 

Souls,  Angels  from  Him  came 
Who  is  a  glorious  bright  and  living  Flame, 

That  on  all  things  doth  shine, 

And  makes  their  face  divine. 
And  Holy,  Holy,  Holy  is  His  Name  : 
He  is  the  means  both  of  Himself  and  all, 
Whom  we  the  Fountain,  Means,  and  End  do  call 


Love 

O  NECTAR  !   O  delicious  stream  ! 
O  ravishing  and  only  pleasure  !    Where 
Shall  such  another  theme 
Inspire  my  tongue  with  joys  or  please  mine  ear  ! 
Abridgement  of  delights ! 

And  Queen  of  sights ! 
O  mine  of  rarities  !    O  Kingdom  wide  ! 
O  more  !   O  cause  of  all !  O  glorious  Bride  ! 
OGod!  O  Bride  of  God!  O  King  ! 
O  soul  and  crown  of  everything  ! 

Did  not  I  covet  to  behold 
Some  endless  monarch,  that  did  always  live 

In  palaces  of  gold, 

Willing  all  kingdoms,  realms,  and  crowns  to  give 
Unto  my  soul !    Whose  love 
A  spring  might  prove 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE  81 

Of  endless  glories,  honours,  friendships,  pleasures, 
Joys,  praises,  beauties  and  celestial  treasures ! 

Lo,  now  I  see  there  's  such  a  King, 

The  fountain-head  of  everything  ! 

Did  my  ambition  ever  dream 
Of  such  a  Lord,  of  such  a  love  !    Did  I 

Expect  so  sweet  a  stream 
As  this  at  any  time  !    Could  any  eye 
Believe  it  ?    Why  all  power 

Is  used  here ; 

Joys  down  from  Heaven  on  my  head  do  shower, 
And  Jove  beyond  the  fiction  doth  appear 
Once  more  in  golden  rain  to  come 
To  Danae's  pleasing  fruitful  womb. 

His  Ganymede  !    His  life  !    His  joy  ! 
Or  He  comes  down  to  me,  or  takes  me  up 

That  I  might  be  His  boy, 

And  fill,  and  taste,  and  give,  and  drink  the  cup. 
But  those  (tho'  great)  are  all 

Too  short  and  small, 
Too  weak  and  feeble  pictures  to  express 
The  true  mysterious  depths  of  Blessedness. 
I  am  His  image,  and  His  friend, 
His  son,  bride,  glory,  temple,  end. 


An  Hymn  upon  St.  Bartholomew  s  Day 

WHAT  powerful  Spirit  lives  within  ! 
What  active  Angel  doth  inhabit  here  ! 
What  heavenly  light  inspires  my  skin, 
Which  doth  so  like  a  Deity  appear  ! 


82  THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

A  living  Temple  of  all  ages,  I 

Within  me  see 
A  Temple  of  Eternity  ! 
All  Kingdoms  I  descry 
In  me. 

An  inward  Omnipresence  here 
Mysteriously  like  His  within  me  stands, 
Whose  knowledge  is  a  Sacred  Sphere 
That  in  itself  at  once  includes  all  lands. 
There  is  some  Angel  that  within  me  can 

Both  talk  and  move, 
And  walk  and  fly  and  see  and  love, 
A  man  on  earth,  a  man 
Above. 

Dull  walls  of  clay  my  Spirit  leaves, 
And  in  a  foreign  Kingdom  doth  appear, 

This  great  Apostle  it  receives, 
Admires  His  works  and  sees  them,  standing  here. 
Within  myself  from  East  to  West  I  move 

As  if  I  were 

At  once  a  Cherubim  and  Sphere, 
Or  was  at  once  above 
And  here. 

The  Soul 's  a  messenger  whereby 
Within  our  inward  Temple  we  may  be 

Even  like  the  very  Deity 
In  all  the  parts  of  His  Eternity. 
O  live  within  and  leave  unwieldy  dross  ! 

Flesh  is  but  clay  ! 
O  fly  my  Soul  and  haste  away 
To  Jesus'  Throne  or  Cross! 
Obey! 


ISAAC  WATTS 

1674-1748 

The  Incomprehensible 

FAR  in  the  Heavens  my  God  retires  : 
My  God,  the  mark  of  my  desires, 
And  hides  his  lovely  face  ; 
When  he  descends  within  my  view, 
He  charms  my  reason  to  pursue, 
But  leaves  it  tir'd  and  fainting  in  thj  unequal  chase. 

Or  if  I  reach  unusual  height 

Till  near  his  presence  brought, 
There  floods  of  glory  check  my  flight, 
Cramp  the  bold  pinions  of  my  wit, 

And  all  untune  my  thought ; 
Plunged  in  a  sea  of  light  I  roll, 
Where  wisdom,  justice,  mercy,  shines  ; 
Infinite  rays  in  crossing  lines 
Beat  thick  confusion  oil  my  sight,  and  overwhelm  my 

soul.  .  .  . 

Great  God  !   behold  my  reason  lies 
Adoring  :   yet  my  love  would  rise 

On  pinions  not  her  own  : 
Faith  shall  direct  her  humble  flight, 
Through  all  the  trackless  seas  of  light, 
To  Thee,  th'  Eternal  Fair,  the  infinite  Unknown. 


84 

ALEXANDER  POPE 

1688-1744 

From  '  An  Essay  on  Man ' 

A^L  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  Nature  is,  and  God  the  soul ; 
That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same, 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  th'  ethereal  frame, 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees, 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent :  , 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part ; 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart ; 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns 
As  the  rapt  Seraphim,  that  sings  and  burns  : 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small — 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all.  .  .  . 
All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee  : 
All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see  : 
All  discord,  harmony  not  understood  ; 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good. 

JOHN  BYROM 

1691-1763 

A  Poetical  Version  of  a  Letter  from 
Jacob  Behmen 

TIS  Man's  own  Nature,  which  in  its  own  Life, 
Or  Centre,  stands  in  Enmity  and  Strife, 
And  anxious,  selfish,  doing  what  it  lists, 
(Without  God's  Love)  that  tempts  him,  and  resists ; 
The  Devil  also  shoots  his  fiery  Dart, 
From  Grace  and  Love  to  turn  away  the  Heart. 


JOHN  BYROM  85 

This  is  the  greatest  Trial ;  'tis  the  Fight 
Which  Christ,  with  His  internal  Love  and  Light, 
Maintains  within  Man's  Nature,  to  dispel 
God's  Anger,  Satan,  Sin,  and  Death,  and  Hell ; 
The  human  Self,  or  Serpent,  to  devour, 
And  raise  an  Angel  from  it  by  His  Pow'r. 

Now  if  God's  Love  in  Christ  did  not  subdue 
In  some  Degree  this  Selfishness  in  you, 
You  would  have  no  such  Combat  to  endure  ; 
The  Serpent,  then,  triumphantly  secure, 
Would  unoppos'd  exert  its  native  Right, 
And  no  such  Conflict  in  your  Soul  excite. 

For  all  the  huge  Temptation  and  Distress 
Rises  in  Nature,  tho'  God  seeks  to  bless  ; 
The  Serpent  feeling  its  tormenting  State, 
(Which  of  itself  is  a  mere  anxious  Hate,) 
When  God's  amazing  Love  comes  in,  to  fill 
And  change  the  selfish  to  a  God-like  Will. 

Here  Christ,  the  Serpent-bruiser,  stands  in  Man, 
Storming  the  Devil's  hellish,  self-built  Plan  ; 
And  hence  the  Strife  within  the  human  Soul, — 
Satan's  to  kill,  and  Christ's  to  make  it  whole  ; 
As  by  Experience,  in  so  great  Degree, 
God  in  His  Goodness  causes  you  to  see.  .  .  . 

The  next  Temptation,  which  befalls  of  Course 
From  Satan  and  from  Nature's  selfish  Force, 
Is,  when  the  Soul  has  tasted  of  the  Love 
And  been  illuminated  from  above  ; 
Still  in  its  Self -hood  it  would  seek  to  shine, 
And  as  its  own  possess  the  Light  Divine. 


86  JOHN  BYROM 

That  is,  the  soulish  Nature, — take  it  right, 
As  much  a  Serpent,  if  without  God's  Light, 
As  Lucifer, — this  Nature  still  would  claim 
For  own  Propriety  the  Heav'nly  Flame, 
And  elevate  its  Fire  to  a  Degree 
Above  the  Light's  Good  Pow'r,  which  cannot  be. 

This  domineering  Self,  this  Nature- Fire, 
Must  be  transmuted  to  a  Love-Desire. 
Now,  when  this  Change  is  to  be  undergone, 
It  looks  for  some  own  Pow'r,  and,  finding  none, 
Begins  to  doubt  of  Grace,  unwilling  quite 
To  yield  up  its  self-willing  Nature's  Right. 

It  never  quakes  for  Fear,  and  will  not  die 
In  Light  Divine,  tho'  to  be  blest  thereby  : 
The  Light  of  -Grace  it  thinks  to  be  Deceit, 
Because  it  worketh  gently  without  Heat ; 
Mov'd  too  by  outward  Reason,  which  is  blind, 
And  of  itself  sees  nothing  of  this  Kind. 

Who  knows,  it  thinketh,  whether  it  be  true 
That  God  is  in  thee,  and  enlightens  too  ? 
Is  it  not  Fancy  ?     For  thou  dost  not  see 
Like  other  People,  who  as  well  as  thee 
Hope  for  Salvation  by  the  Grace  of  God, 
Without  such  Fear  and  Trembling  at  his  Rod.  .  . 

The  own  Self-will  must  die  away,  and  shine, 
Rising  thro'  Death,  in  Saving  Will  Divine  ; 
And  from  the  Opposition  which  it  tries 
Against  God's  Will  such  great  Temptations  rise ; 
The  Devil  too  is  loth  to  lose  his  Prey, 
And  see  his  Fort  cast  down,  if  it  obey. 


JOHN  BYROM  87 

For,  if  the  Life  of  Christ  within  arise, 
Self-Lust  and  false  Imagination  dies,— 
Wholly,  it  cannot  in  this  present  Life, 
But  by  the  Flesh  maintains  the  daily  Strife, — 
Dies,  and  yet  lives  ;  as  they  alone  can  tell 
In  whom  Christ  fights  against  the  Pow'rs  of  Hell. 

The  third  Temptation  is  in  Mind  and  Will, 
And  Flesh  and  Blood,  if  Satan  enter  still ; 
Where  the  false  Centres  lie  in  Man,  the  Springs 
Of  Pride  and  Lust,  and  Love  of  earthly  Things, 
And  all  the  Curses  wish'd  by  other  Men, 
Which  are  occasion'd  by  this  Devil's  Den. 

These  in  the  Astral  Spirit  make  a  Fort, 
Which  all  the  Sins  concentre  to  support ; 
And  human  Will,  esteeming  for  its  Joy 
What  Christ,  to  save  it,  combats  to  destroy, 
WTill  not  resign  the  Pride-erected  Tow'r, 
Nor  live  obedient  to  the  Saviour's  Pow'r.  .  .  . 

Let  go  all  earthly  Will,  and  be  resign'd 
Wholly  to  Him  with  all  your  Heart  and  Mind  ! 
Be  Joy  or  Sorrow,  Comfort  or  Distress, 
Receiv'd  alike,  for  He  alike  can  bless, 
To  gain  the  Victory  of  Christian  Faith 
Over  the  World  and  all  Satanic  Wrath  ! 

WILLIAM  COWPER 

1731-1800 

From  '  The  Task ' 

THE  Lord  of  all,  himself  through  all  diffus'd, 
Sustains,  and  is  the  life  of  all  that  lives. 
Nature  is  but  a  name  for  an  effect, 
Whose  cause  is  God.     He  feeds  the  secret  fire 


88  WILLIAM  COWPER 

By  which  the  mighty  process  is  maintain'd, 

Who  sleeps  not,  is  not  weary  ;  in  whose  sight 

Slow  circling  ages  are  as  transient  days ; 

Whose  work  is  without  labour  ;  whose  designs 

No  flaw  deforms,  no  difficulty  thwarts ; 

And  whose  beneficence  no  charge  exhausts. 

Him  blind  antiquity  profan'd,  not  serv'd, 

With  self-taught  rites,  and  under  various  names, 

Female  and  male,  Pomona,  Pales,  Pan, 

And  Flora,  and  Vertumnus  ;  peopling  earth 

With  tutelary  goddesses  and  gods 

That  were  not ;  and  commending,  as  they  would, 

To  each  some  province,  garden,  field,  or  grove. 

But  all  are  under  one.     One  spirit — His 

Who  wore  the  platted  thorns  with  bleeding  brows — 

Rules  universal  nature.     Not  a  flow'r 

But  shows  some  touch,  in  freckle,  streak,  or  stain, 

Of  his  unrivall'd  pencil.     He  inspires 

Their  balmy  odours,  and  imparts  their  hues, 

And  bathes  their  eyes  with  nectar,  and  includes, 

In  grains  as  countless  as  the  sea-side  sands, 

The  forms  with  which  he  sprinkles  all  the  earth. 

Happy  who  walks  with  him  !   whom  what  he  finds 

Of  flavour  or  of  scent  in  fruit  or  flow'r, 

Or  what  he  views  of  beautiful  or  grand 

In  nature,  from  the  broad  majestic  oak 

To  the  green  blade  that  twinkles  in  the  sun, 

Prompts  with  remembrance  of  a  present  God  ! 


89 

WILLIAM  BLAKE 

1757-1827 

The  Divine  Image 

HPO  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love 

JL  All  pray  in  their  distress  ; 
And  to  these  virtues  of  delight 
Return  their  thankfulness. 

For  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love 
Is  God,  our  Father  dear, 
And  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love 
Is  man,  His  child  and  care. 

For  Mercy  has  a  human  heart, 
Pity  a  human  face, 
And  Love,  the  human  form  divine, 
And  Peace,  the  human  dress. 

Then  every  man,  of  every  clime, 
That  prays  in  his  distress, 
Prays  to  the  human  form  divine, 
Love,  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace. 

And  all  must  love  the  human  form, 
In  heathen,  Turk,  or  Jew  ; 
Where  Mercy,  Love,  and  Pity  dwell 
There  God  is  dwelling  too. 


9o 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 


Ntght 

'  I  'HE  sun  descending  in  the  west, 

1  The  evening  star  does  shine  ; 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  nest, 
And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 
The  moon,  like  a  flower, 
In  heaven's  high  bower, 
With  silent  delight 
Sits  and  smiles  on  the  night. 

Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  groves, 
Where  flocks  have  took  delight. 
Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  moves 
The  feet  of  angels  bright ; 
Unseen  they  pour  blessing, 
And  joy  without  ceasing, 
On  each  bud  and  blossom, 
And  each  sleeping  bosom. 

They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest, 
Where  birds  are  cover'd  warm  ; 
They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 
To  keep  them  all  from  harm. 
If  they  see  any  weeping      * 
That  should  have  been  sleeping, 
They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 
And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 

When  wolves  and  tigers  howl  for  prey, 
They  pitying  stand  and  weep  ; 
Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away, 
And  keep  them  from  the  sheep. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  91 

But  if  they  rush  dreadful, 
The  angels,  most  heedful, 
Receive  each  mild  spirit, 
New  worlds  to  inherit. 

And  there  the  lion's  ruddy  eyes 
Shall  flow  with  tears  of  gold, 
And  pitying  the  tender  cries, 
And  walking  round  the  fold, 
Saying  :   '  Wrath,  by  His  meekness. 
And,  by  His  health,  sickness 
Is  driven  away 
From  our  immortal  day. 

'  And  now  beside  thee,  bleating  lamb, 

I  can  lie  down  and  sleep  ; 

Or  think  on  Him  who  bore  thy  name, 

Graze  after  thee  and  weep. 

For,  wash'd  in  life's  river, 

My  bright  mane  for  ever 

Shall  shine  like  the  gold 

As  I  guard  o'er  the  fold.' 


Broken  Love 

MY  Spectre  around  me  night  and  day 
Like  a  wild  beast  guards  my  way ; 
My  Emanation  far  within 
Weeps  incessantly  for  my  sin. 

1  A  fathomless  and  boundless  deep, 
There  we  wander,  there  we  weep  ; 
On  the  hungry  craving  wind 
My  Spectre  follows  thee  behind. 


92  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

'  He  scents  thy  footsteps  in  the  snow 
Wheresoever  thou  dost  go, 
Thro'  the  wintry  hail  and  rain. 
When  wilt  thou  return  again  ? 

'  Dost  thou  not  in  pride  and  scorn 
Fill  with  tempests  all  my  morn, 
And  with  jealousies  and  fears 
Fill  my  pleasant  nights  with  tears  ? 

'  Seven  of  my  sweet  loves  thy  knife 
Has  bereaved  of  their  life. 
Their  marble  tombs  I  built  with  tears; 
And  with  cold  and  shuddering  fears. 

1  Seven  more  loves  weep  night  and  day 
Round  the  tombs  where  my  loves  lay, 
And  seven  more  loves  attend  each  night 
Around  my  couch  with  torches  bright. 

'  And  seven  more  loves  in  my  bed 
Crown  with  wine  my  mournful  head, 
Pitying  and  forgiving  all 
Thy  transgressions  great  and  small. 

*  When  wilt  thou  return  and  view 
My  loves,  and  them  to  life  renew  ? 
When  wilt  thou  return  and  live  ? 
When  wilt  thou  pity  as  I  forgive  ?  ' 

(  O'er  my  sins  thou  sit  and  moan  : 
Hast  thou  no  sins  of  thy  own  ? 
O'er  my  sins  thou  sit  and  weep, 
And  lull  thy  own  sins  fast  asleep. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  93 

'  What  transgressions  I  commit 
Are  for  thy  transgressions  fit. 
They  thy  harlots,  thou  their  slave  ; 
And  my  bed  becomes  their  grave. 

'  Never,  never,  I  return  : 
Still  for  victory  I  burn. 
Living,  thee  alone  I'll  have  ; 
And  when  dead  I'll  be  thy  grave. 

'  Thro'  the  Heaven  and  Earth  and  Hell 
Thou  shalt  never,  never  quell : 
I  will  fly  and  thou  pursue  : 
Night  and  morn  the  flight  renew.' 

4  Poor,  pale,  pitiable  form 
That  I  follow  in  a  storm  ; 
Iron  tears  and  gr6ans  of  lead 
Bind  around  my  aching  head. 

'  Till  I  turn  from  Female  love 
And  root  up  the  Infernal  Grove, 
I  shall  never  worthy  be 
To  step  into  Eternity. 

*  And,  to  end  thy  cruel  mocks, 
Annihilate  thee  on  the  rocks, 
And  another  form  create 
To  be  subservient  to  my  fate. 

'  Let  us  agree  to  give  up  love, 
And  root  up  the  Infernal  Grove  ; 
Then  shall  we  return  and  see 
The  worlds  of  happy  Eternity. 


94  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

4  And  throughout  all  Eternity 

I  forgive  you,  you  forgive  me. 

As  our  dear  Redeemer  said  : 

"  This  the  Wine,  and  this  the  Bread."  ' 


The  Everlasting  Gospel 

'T'HE  Vision  of  Christ  that  thou  dost  see 

JL  Is  my  vision's  greatest  enemy. 
Thine  has  a  great  hook  nose  like  thine  ; 
Mine  has  a  snub  nose  like  to  mine. 
Thine  is  the  Friend  of  all  Mankind  ; 
Mine  speaks  in  parables  to  the  blind. 
Thine  loves  the  same  world  that  mine  hates ; 
Thy  heaven  doors  are  my  hell  gates. 
Socrates  taught  what  Meletus 
Loath'd  as  a  nation's  bitterest  curse, 
And  Caiaphas  was  in  his  own  mind 
A  benefactor  to  mankind. 
Both  read  the  Bible  day  and  night, 
But  thou  read'st  black  where  I  read  white. 

Was  Jesus  gentle,  or  did  He 
Give  any  marks  of  gentility  ? 
When  twelve  years  old  He  ran  away, 
And  left  His  parents  in  dismay. 
When  after  three  days'  sorrow  found, 
Loud  as  Sinai's  trumpet-sound  : 
'  No  earthly  parents  I  confess — 
My  Heavenly  Father's  business  ! 
Ye  understand  not  what  I  say, 
And,  angry,  force  Me  to  obey. 
Obedience  is  a  duty  then, 
And  favour  gains  with  God  and  men.' 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  95 

John  from  the  wilderness  loud  cried  ; 

Satan  gloried  in  his  pride. 

'  Come,'  said  Satan,  '  come  away, 

I'll  soon  see  if  you'll  obey  ! 

John  for  disobedience  bled, 

But  you  can  turn  the  stones  to  bread. 

God's  high  king  and  God's  high  priest 

Shall  plant  their  glories  in  your  breast, 

If  Caiaphas  you  will  obey, 

If  Herod  you  with  bloody  prey 

Feed  with  the  sacrifice,  and  be 

Obedient,  fall  down,  worship  me.' 

Thunders  and  lightnings  broke  around, 

And  Jesus'  voice  in  thunders'  sound  : 

4  Thus  I  seize  the  spiritual  prey. 

Ye  smiters  with  disease,  make  way. 

I  come  your  King  and  God  to  seize, 

Is  God  a  smiter  with  disease  ?  ' 

The  God  of  this  world  rag'd  in  vain  : 

He  bound  old  Satan  in  His  chain, 

And,  bursting  forth,  His  furious  ire 

Became  a  chariot  of  fire. 

Throughout  the  land  He  took  His  course, 

And  trac'd  diseases  to  their  source. 

He  curs'd  the  Scribe  and  Pharisee, 

Trampling  down  hypocrisy. 

Where'er  His  chariot  took  its  way, 

There  Gates  of  Death  let  in  the  Day, 

Broke  down  from  every  chain  and  bar  ; 

And  Satan  in  His  spiritual  war 

Dragg'd  at  His  chariot-wheels :  loud  howl'd 

The  God  of  this  world  :  louder  roll'd 

The  chariot-wheels,  and  louder  still 

His  voice  was  heard  from  Zion's  Hill, 


96  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

And  in  His  hand  the  scourge  shone  bright ; 

He  scourg'd  the  merchant  Canaanite 

From  out  the  Temple  of  His  Mind, 

And  in  his  body  tight  does  bind 

Satan  and  all  his  hellish  crew  ; 

And  thus  with  wrath  He  did  subdue 

The  serpent  bulk  of  Nature's  dross, 

Till  He  had  nail'd  it  to  the  Cross. 

He  took  on  sin  in  the  Virgin's  womb 

And  put  it  off  on  the  Cross  and  tomb 

To  be  worshipp'd  by  the  Church  of  Rome. 

Was  Jesus  humble  ?  or  did  He 

Give  any  proofs  of  humility  ? 

Boast  of  high  things  with  humble  tone, 

And  give  with  charity  a  stone  ? 

When  but  a  child  He  ran  away, 

And  left  His  parents  in  dismay. 

When  they  had  wander'd  three  days  long 

These  were  the  words  upon  His  tongue  : 

'  No  earthly  parents  I  confess  : 

I  am  doing  My  Father's  business.' 

When  the  rich  learned  Pharisee 

Came  to  consult  Him  secretly, 

Upon  his  heart  with  iron  pen 

He  wrote  '  Ye  must  be  born  again.' 

He  was  too  proud  to  take  a  bribe  ; 

He  spoke  with  authority,  not  like  a  Scribe. 

He  says  with  most  consummate  art 

'  Follow  Me,  I  am  meek  and  lowly  of  heart, 

As  that  is  the  only  way  to  escape 

The  miser's  net  and  the  glutton's  trap.' 

What  can  be  done  with  such  desperate  fools 

Who  follow  after  the  heathen  schools  ? 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  97 

I  was  standing  by  when  Jesus  died  ; 
What  I  call'd  humility,  they  call'd  pride. 
He  who  loves  his  enemies  betrays  his  friends. 
This  surely  is  not  what  Jesus  intends  ; 
But  the  sneaking  pride  of  heroic  schools, 
And  the  Scribes'  and  Pharisees'  virtuous  rules  ; 
For  He  acts  with  honest,  triumphant  pride, 
And  this  is  the  cause  that  Jesus  died. 
He  did  not  die  with  Christian  ease, 
Asking  pardon  of  His  enemies  : 
If  He  had,  Caiaphas  would  forgive  ; 
Sneaking  submission  can  always  live. 
He  had  only  to  say  that  God  was  the  Devil, 
And  the  Devil  was  God,  like  a  Christian  civil ; 
Mild  Christian  regrets  to  the  Devil  confess 
For  affronting  him  thrice  in  the  wilderness ; 
He  had  soon  been  bloody  Caesar's  elf, 
And  at  last  he  would  have  been  Caesar  himself, 
Like  Dr.  Priestly  and  Bacon  and  Newton — 
Poor  spiritual  knowledge  is  not  worth  a  button  ! 
For  thus  the  Gospel  Sir  Isaac  confutes : 
'  God  can  only  be  known  by  His  attributes ; 
And  as  for  the  indwelling  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
Or  of  Christ  and  His  Father,  it's  all  a  boast 
And  pride,  and  vanity  of  the  imagination, 
That  disdains  to  follow  this  world's  fashion.' 
To  teach  doubt  and  experiment 
Certainly  was  not  what  Christ  meant. 
What  was  He  doing  all  that  time, 
From  twelve  years  old  to  manly  prime  ? 
Was  He  then,  idle,  or  the  less 
About  His  Father's  business  ? 
Or  was  His  wisdom  held  in  scorn 
Before  His  wrath  began  to  burn 
MYST.  E 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 

In  miracles  throughout  the  land, 

That  quite  unnerv'd  the  Seraph  band  ? 

If  He  had  been  Antichrist,  Creeping  Jesus, 

He'd  have  done  anything  to  please  us ; 

Gone  sneaking  into  synagogues, 

And  not  us'd  the  Elders  and  Priests  like  dogs ; 

But  humble  as  a  lamb  or  ass 

Obey'd  Himself  to  Caiaphas. 

God  wants  not  man  to  humble  himself  : 

That  is  the  trick  of  the  Ancient  Elf. 

This  is  the  race  that  Jesus  ran  : 

Humble  to  God,  haughty  to  man, 

Cursing  the  Rulers  before  the  people 

Even  to  the  Temple's  highest  steeple, 

And  when  He  humbled  Himself  to  God 

Then  descended  the  cruel  rod. 

'  If  Thou  Humblest  Thyself,  Thou  humblest  Me. 

Thou  also  dwell'st  in  Eternity. 

Thou  art  a  Man  :  God  is  no  more  : 

Thy  own  Humanity  learn  to  adore, 

For  that  is  My  spirit  of  life. 

Awake,  arise  to  spiritual  strife, 

And  Thy  revenge  abroad  display 

In  terrors  at  the  last  Judgement  Day. 

God's  mercy  and  long  suffering 

Is  but  the  sinner  to  judgement  to  bring. 

Thou  on  the  Cross  for  them  shalt  pray — 

And  take  revenge  at  the  Last  Day.' 

Jesus  replied,  and  thunders  hurl'd  : 

'  I  never  will  pray  for  the  world. 

Once  I  did  so  when  I  pray'd  in  the  Garden  ; 

I  wish'd  to  take  with  Me  a  bodily  pardon.' 

Can  that  which  was  of  woman  born, 

In  the  absence  of  the  morn, 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 

When  the  Soul  fell  into  sleep, 

And  Archangels  round  it  weep, 

Shooting  out  against  the  light 

Fibres  of  a  deadly  night, 

Reasoning  upon  its  own  dark  fiction, 

In  doubt  which  is  self-contradiction  ? 

Humility  is  only  doubt, 

And  does  the  sun  and  moon  blot  out, 

Rooting  over  with  thorns  and  stems 

The  buried  soul  and  all  its  gems. 

This  life's  five  windows  of  the  soul 

Distorts  the  Heavens  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  leads  you  to  believe  a  lie 

When  you  see  with,  not  thro',  the  eye 

That  was  born  in  a  night,  to  perish  in  a  night, 

When  the  soul  slept  in  the  beams  of  light. 

Did  Jesus  teach  doubt  ?   or  did  He 
Give  any  lessons  of  philosophy, 
Charge  Visionaries  with  deceiving, 
Or  call  men  wise  for  not  believing  ?  . .  . 

Was  Jesus  born  of  a  Virgin  pure 
With  narrow  soul  and  looks  demure  ? 
If  He  intended  to  take  on  sin 
The  Mother  should  an  harlot  been, 
Just  such  a  one  as  Magdalen, 
With  seven  devils  in  her  pen. 
Or  were  Jew  virgins  still  more  curs'd, 
And  more  sucking  devils  nurs'd  ? 
Or  what  was  it  which  He  took  on 
That  He  might  bring  salvation  ? 
A  body  subject  to  be  tempted, 
From  neither  pain  nor  grief  exempted  ; 
Or  such  a  body  as  might  not  feel 
The  passions  that  with  sinners  deal  ? 


99 


ioo  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

Yes,  but  they  say  He  never  fell. 

Ask  Caiaphas  ;  for  he  can  tell. — 

'  He  mock'd  the  Sabbath,  and  He  mock'd 

The  Sabbath's  God,  and  He  unlock'd 

The  evil  spirits  from  their  shrines, 

And  turn'd  fishermen  to  divines ; 

O'erturn'd  the  tent  of  secret  sins, 

And  its  golden  cords  and  pins, 

In  the  bloody  shrine  of  war 

Pour'd  around  from  star  to  star, — 

Halls  of  justice,  hating  vice, 

Where  the  Devil  combs  his  lice. 

He  turn'd  the  devils  into  swine 

That  He  might  tempt  the  Jews  to  dine  ; 

Since  which,  a  pig  has  got  a  look 

That  for  a  Jew  may  be  mistook. 

"  Obey  your  parents." — What  says  He  ? 

"  Woman,  what  have  I  to  do  with  thee  ? 

No  earthly  parents  I  confess : 

I  am  doing  my  Father's  business." 

He  scorn'd  Earth's  parents,  scorn'd  Earth's  God, 

And  mock'd  the  one  and  the  other's  rod  ; 

His  seventy  Disciples  sent 

Against  Religion  and  Government — 

They  by  the  sword  of  Justice  fell, 

And  Him  their  cruel  murderer  tell. 

He  left  His  father's  trade  to  roam, 

A  wand'ring  vagrant  without  home  ; 

And  thus  He  others'  labour  stole, 

That  He  might  live  above  control. 

The  publicans  and  harlots  He 

Selected  for  His  company, 

And  from  the  adulteress  turn'd  away 

God's  righteous  law,  that  lost  its  prey.' 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  101 

Was  Jesus  chaste  ?   or  did  He 

Give  any  lessons  of  chastity  ? 

The  Morning  blushed  fiery  red  : 

Mary  was  found  in  adulterous  bed  ; 

Earth  groan'd  beneath,  and  Heaven  above 

Trembled  at  discovery  of  Love. 

Jesus  was  sitting  in  Moses'  chair. 

They  brought  the  trembling  woman  there. 

Moses  commands  she  be  ston'd  to  death. 

What  was  the  sound  of  Jesus'  breath  ? 

He  laid  His  hand  on  Moses'  law  ; 

The  ancient  Heavens,  in  silent  awe, 

Writ  with  curses  from  pole  to  pole, 

All  away  began  to  roll. 

The  Earth  trembling  and  naked  lay 

In  secret  bed  of  mortal  clay  ; 

On  Sinai  felt  the  Hand  Divine 

Pulling  back  the  bloody  shrine  ; 

And  she  heard  the  breath  of  God, 

As  she  heard  by  Eden's  flood  : 

'  Good  and  Evil  are  no  more  ! 

Sinai's  trumpets  cease  to  roar  ! 

Cease,  finger  of  God,  to  write-! 

The  Heavens  are  not  clean  in  Thy  sight. 

Thou  art  good,  and  Thou  alone  ; 

Nor  may  the  sinner  cast  one  stone. 

To  be  good  only,  is  to  be 

A  God  or  else  a  Pharisee. 

Thou  Angel  of  the  Presence  Divine, 

That  didst  create  this  Body  of  Mine, 

Wherefore  hast  thou  writ  these  laws 

And  created  Hell's  dark  jaws  ? 

My  Presence  I  will  take  from  thee  : 

A  cold  leper  thou  shalt  be. 


102  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

Tho'  thou  wast  so  pure  and  bright 
That  Heaven  was  impure  in  thy  sight, 
Tho'  thy  oath  turn'd  Heaven  pale, 
Tho'  thy  covenant  built  Hell's  jail, 
Tho'  thou  didst  all  to  chaos  roll 
With  the  Serpent  for  its  soul, 
Still  the  breath  Divine  does  move, 
And  the  breath  Divine  is  Love. 
Mary,  fear  not !     Let  me  see 
The  seven  devils  that  torment  thee. 
Hide  not  from  My  sight  thy  sin, 
That  forgiveness  thou  may'st  win. 
Has  no  man  condemned  thee  ? ' 
'  No  man,  Lord.'     '  Then  what  is  he 
Who  shall  accuse  thee  ?     Come  ye  forth, 
Fallen  fiends  of  heavenly  birth, 
That  have  forgot  your  ancient  love, 
And  driven  away  my  trembling  Dove. 
You  shall  bow  before  her  feet ; 
You  shall  lick  the  dust  for  meat ; 
And  tho'  you  cannot  love,  but  hate, 
Shall  be  beggars  at  Love's  gate. 
What  was  thy  love  ?     Let  Me  see  it ; 
Was  it  love  or  dark  deceit  ? ' 
*  Love  too  long  from  me  has  fled  ; 
'Twas  dark  deceit,  to  earn  my  bread  ; 
'Twas  covet,  or  'twas  custom,  or 
Some  trifle  not  worth  caring  for  ; 
That  they  may  call  a  shame  and  sin 
Love's  temple  that  God  dwelleth  in, 
And  hide  in  secret  hidden  shrine 
The  naked  Human  Form  Divine, 
And  render  that  a  lawless  thing 
On  which  the  Soul  expands  its  wing. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  103 

But  this,  O  Lord,  this  was  my  sin, 

When  first  I  let  these  devils  in, 

In  dark  pretence  to  chastity 

Blaspheming  Love,  blaspheming  Thee, 

Thence  rose  secret  adulteries, 

And  thence  did  covet  also  rise. 

My  sin  Thou  hast  forgiven  me  ; 

Canst  Thou  forgive  my  blasphemy  ? 

Canst  Thou  return  to  this  dark  hell, 

And  in  my  burning  bosom  dwell  ? 

And  canst  Thou  die  that  I  may  live  ? 

And  canst  Thou  pity  and  forgive  ? ' 

Then  roll'd  the  shadowy  Man  away 

From  the  limbs  of  Jesus,  to  make  them  His  prey, 

An  ever  devouring  appetite, 

Glittering  with  festering  venoms  bright ; 

Crying  '  Crucify  this  cause  of  distress, 

Who  don't  keep  the  secrets  of  holiness ! 

The  mental  powers  by  diseases  we  bind  ; 

But  He  heals  the  deaf,  the  dumb,  and  the  blind. 

Whom  God  has  afflicted  for  secret  ends, 

He  comforts  and  heals  and  calls  them  friends.' 

But,  when  Jesus  was  crucified, 

Then  was  perfected  His  galling  pride. 

In  three  nights  He  devour'd  His  prey, 

And  still  He  devours  the  body  of  clay  ; 

For  dust  and  clay  is  the  Serpent's  meat, 

Which  never  was  made  for  Man  to  eat. 

Seeing  this  False  Christ,  in  fury  and  passion 
I  made  my  voice  heard  all  over  the  nation. 
What  are  those.  .  . 

I  am  sure  this  Jesus  will  not  do, 
Either  for  Englishman  or  Jew. 


104  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

The  Crystal  Cabinet 

THE  Maiden  caught  me  in  the  wild, 
Where  I  was  dancing  merrily ; 
She  put  me  into  her  Cabinet, 
And  lock'd  me  up  with  a  golden  key. 

This  Cabinet  is  form'd  of  gold 
And  pearl  and  crystal  shining  bright, 
And  within  it  opens  into  a  world 
And  a  little  lovely  moony  night. 

Another  England  there  I  saw, 
Another  London  with  its  Tower, 
Another  Thames  and  other  hills, 
And  another  pleasant  Surrey  bower, 

Another  Maiden  like  herself, 
Translucent,  lovely,  shining  clear, 
Threefold  each  in  the  other  clos'd — 
O,  what  a  pleasant  trembling  fear  ! 

O,  what  a  smile  !   a  threefold  smile 
Fill'd  me,  that  like  a  flame  I  burn'd ; 
I  bent  to  kiss  the  lovely  Maid, 
And  found  a  threefold  kiss  return'd. 

I  strove  to  seize  the  inmost  form 
With  ardour  fierce  and  hands  of  flame, 
But  burst  the  Crystal  Cabinet, 
And  like  a  weeping  Babe  became — 

A  weeping  Babe  upon  the  wild, 
And  weeping  Woman  pale  reclin'd, 
And  in  the  outward  air  again 
I  filPd  with  woes  the  passing  wind. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  105 

Auguries  of  Innocence 

TO  see  a  World  in  a  grain  of  sand, 
And  a  Heaven  in  a  wild  flower, 
Hold  Infinity  in  the  palm  of  your  hand, 
And  Eternity  in  an  hour.  .  .  . 

The  bat  that  flits  at  close  of  eve 
Has  left  the  brain  that  won't  believe. 
The  owl  that  calls  upon  the  night 
Speaks  the  unbeliever's  fright.  .  .  . 

Joy  and  woe  are  woven  fine, 
A  clothing  for  the  soul  divine  ; 
Under  every  grief  and  pine 
Runs  a  joy  with  silken  twine.  .  .  . 

Every  tear  from  every  eye 
Becomes  a  babe  in  Eternity.  .  .  . 

The  bleat,  the  bark,  bellow,  and  roar 

Are  waves  that  beat  on  Heaven's  shore.  .  .  . 

He  who  doubts  from  what  he  sees 
Will  ne'er  believe,  do  what  you  please. 
If  the  Sun  and  Moon  should  doubt, 
They'd  immediately  go  out.  .  .  . 

God  appears,  and  God  is  Light, 

To  those  poor  souls  who  dwell  in  Night ; 

But  does  a  Human  Form  display 

To  those  who  dwell  in  realms  of  Day. 


io6  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

To   Thomas  Butts 

TO  my  friend  Butts  I  write 
My  first  vision  of  light, 
On  the  yellow  sands  sitting. 
The  sun  was  emitting 
His  glorious  beams 
From  Heaven's  high  streams. 
Over  sea,  over  land, 
My  eyes  did  expand 
Into  regions  of  air, 
Away  from  all  care  ; 
Into  regions  of  fire,    • 
Remote  from  desire ; 
The  light  of  the  morning 
Heaven's  mountains  adorning : 
In  particles  bright, 
The  jewels  of  light 
Distinct  shone  and  clear. 
Amaz'd  and  in  fear 
I  each  particle  gazed, 
Astonish'd,  amazed ; 
For  each  was  a  Man 
Human-form'd.    Swift  I  ran, 
For  they  beckon'd  to  me, 
Remote  by  the  sea, 
Saying  :    *  Each  grain  of  sand, 
Every  stone  on  the  land, 
Each  rock  and  each  hill, 
Each  fountain  and  rill, 
Each  herb  and  each  tree, 
Mountain,  hill,  earth,  and  sea, 
Cloud,  meteor,  and  star, 
Are  men  seen  afar.' 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  107 

I  stood  in  the  streams 
Of  Heaven's  bright  beams, 
And  saw  Felpham  sweet 
Beneath  my  bright  feet, 
In  soft  Female  charms  ; 
And  in  her  fair  arms 
My  Shadow  I  knew, 
And  my  wife's  Shadow  too, 
And  my  sister,  and  friend. 
We  like  infants  descend 
In  our  Shadows  on  earth, 
Like  a  weak  mortal  birth. 
My  eyes,  more  and  more, 
Like  a  sea  without  shore, 
Continue  expanding, 
The  Heavens  commanding ; 
Till  the  jewels  of  light, 
Heavenly  men  beaming  bright, 
Appear'd  as  One  Man, 
Who  complacent  began 
My  limbs  to  enfold 
In  His  beams  of  bright  gold ; 
Like  dross  purg'd  away 
All  my  mire  and  my  clay. 
Soft  consum'd  in  delight, 
In  His  bosom  sun-bright 
I  remain'd.    Soft  He  smil'd, 
And  I  heard  His  voice  mild, 
Saying  :    '  This  is  My  fold, 
O  thou  ram  horn'd  with  gold, 
Who  awakest  from  sleep 
On  the  sides  of  the  deep. 
On  the  mountains  around 
The  roarings  resound 


io8  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

Of  the  lion  and  wolf, 

The  loud  sea,  and  deep  gulf. 

These  are  guards  of  My  fold, 

0  thou  ram  horn'd  with  gold  ! 
And  the  voice  faded  mild  ; 

1  remain'd  as  a  child  ; 
All  I  ever  had  known 
Before  me  bright  shone  : 
I  saw  you  and  your  wife 
By  the  fountains  of  life. 
Such  the  vision  to  me 
Appear'd  on  the  sea. 


From  ''Milton ' 

A~WD  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time 
Walk  upon  England's  mountains  green  ? 
And  was  the  holy  Lamb  of  God 

On  England's  pleasant  pastures  seen  ? 

And  did  the  Countenance  Divine 
Shine  forth  upon  our  clouded  hills  ? 

And  was  Jerusalem  builded  here 
Among  these  dark  Satanic  Mills  ? 

Bring  me  my  bow  of  burning  gold  ! 

Bring  me  my  arrows  of  desire  ! 
Bring  me  my  spear  !    O  clouds,  unfold  ! 

Bring  me  my  chariot  of  fire  ! 

I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 
Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 

Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 

In  England's  green  and  pleasant  land. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  109 

From  ''Jerusalem ' 

To  the  Christians 

I  GIVE  you  the  end  of  a  golden  string  ; 
Only  wind  it  into  a  ball, 
It  will  lead  you  in  at  Heaven's  gate, 
Built  in  Jerusalem's  wall.  .  .  . 

England  !   awake  !   awake  !   awake  ! 

Jerusalem  thy  sister  calls ! 
Why  wilt  thou  sleep  the  sleep  of  death, 

And  close  her  from  thy  ancient  walls  ? 

Thy  hills  and  valleys  felt  her  feet 

Gently  upon  their  bosoms  move  : 
Thy  gates  beheld  sweet  Zion's  ways  ; 

Then  was  a  time  of  joy  and  love. 

And  now  the  time  returns  again  : 

Our  souls  exult,  and  London's  towers 

Receive  the  Lamb  of  God  to  dwell 

In  England's  green  and  pleasant  bowers. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

1770-1850 
From  '  The  Excursion  ' 


SUCH  was  the  Boy — but  for  the  growing  Youth 
What  soul  was  his,  when,  from  the  naked  top 
Of  some  bold  headland,  he  beheld  the  sun 
Rise  up,  and  bathe  the  world  in  light  1    He  looked — 
Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of  earth 
And  ocean's  liquid  mass,  in  gladness  lay 


i  io  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Beneath  him  : — Far  and  wide  the  clouds  were  touched, 

And  in  their  silent  faces  could  he  read 

Unutterable  love.     Sound  needed  none, 

Nor  any  voice  of  joy  ;  his  spirit  drank 

The  spectacle  :   sensation,  soul,  and  form, 

All  melted  into  him  ;  they  swallowed  up 

His  animal  being  ;  in  them  did  he  live, 

And  by  them  did  he  live  ;  they  were  his  life. 

In  such  access  of  mind,  in  such  high  hour 

Of  visitation  from  the  living  God, 

Thought  was  not  ;  in  enjoyment  it  expired. 

No  thanks  he  breathed,  he  proffered  no  request ; 

Rapt  into  still  communion  that  transcends 

The  imperfect  offices  of  prayer  and  praise, 

His  mind  was  a  thanksgiving  to  the  power 

That  made  him  ;  it  was  blessedness  and  love  ! 


Thou,  who  didst  wrap  the  cloud 
Of  infancy  around  us,  that  thyself, 
Therein,  with  our  simplicity  awhile 
Might'st  hold,  on  earth,  communion  undisturbed  ; 
Who  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep, 
Or  from  its  death-like  void,  with  punctual  care, 
And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 
Restor'st  us,  daily,  to  the  powers  of  sense 
And  reason's  steadfast  rule — thou,  thou  alone 
Art  everlasting,  and  the  blessed  Spirits, 
Which  thou  includest,  as  the  sea  her  waves : 
For  adoration  thou  endur'st ;  endure 
For  consciousness  the  motions  of  thy  will ; 
For  apprehension  those  transcendent  truths 
Of  the  pure  intellect,  that  stand  as  laws 
(Submission  constituting  strength  and  power) 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  in 

Even  to  thy  Being's  infinite  majesty  ! 

This  universe  shall  pass  away — a  work 

Glorious  !  because  the  shadow  of  thy  might, 

A  step,  or  link,  for  intercourse  with  thee. 

Ah  !  if  the  time  must  come,  in  which  my  feet 

No  more  shall  stray  where  meditation  leads, 

By  flowing  stream,  through  wood,  or  craggy  wild, 

Loved  haunts  like  these  ;  the  unimprisoned  Mind 

May  yet  have  scope  to  range  among  her  own, 

Her  thoughts,  her  images,  her  high  desires. 

If  the  dear  faculty  of  sight  should  fail, 

Still,  it  may  be  allowed  me  to  remember 

What  visionary  powers  of  eye  and  soul 

In  youth  were  mine  ;  when,  stationed  on  the  top 

Of  some  huge  hill,  expectant,  I  beheld 

The  sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  returned 

Darkness  to  chase,  and  sleep  ;  and  bring  the  day 

His  bounteous  gift !  or  saw  him  toward  the  deep 

Sink,  with  a  retinue  of  flaming  clouds 

Attended  ;  then,  my  spirit  was  entranced 

With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude  ; 

The  measure  of  my  soul  was  filled  with  bliss, 

And  holiest  love  ;  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light, 

With  pomp,  with  glory,  with  magnificence  ! 

in 

I  have  seen 

A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 
Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipped  shell ; 
To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 
Listened  intensely  ;  and  his  countenance  soon 
Brightened  with  joy  ;  for  from  within  were  heard 
Murmurings,  whereby  the  monitor  expressed 


112 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 
Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith  ;  and  there  are  times, 
I  doubt  not,  when  to  you  it  doth  impart 
Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things  ; 
Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever-during  power  ; 
And  central  peace,  subsisting  at  the  heart 
Of  endless  agitation. 

IV 

To  every  Form  of  being  is  assigned 

An  active  Principle  : — howe'er  removed 

From  sense  and  observation,  it  subsists 

In  all  things,  in  all  natures  ;  in  the  stars 

Of  azure  heaven,  the  unenduring  clouds, 

In  flower  and  tree,  in  every  pebbly  stone 

That  paves  the  brooks,  the  stationary  rocks, 

The  moving  waters,  and  the  invisible  air. 

Whate'er  exists  hath  properties  that  spread       » 

Beyond  itself,  communicating  good, 

A  simple  blessing,  or  with  evil  mixed  ; 

Spirit  that  knows  no  insulated  spot, 

No  chasm,  no  solitude  ;  from  link  to  link 

It  circulates,  the  Soul  of  all  the  worlds. 

This  is  the  freedom  of  the  universe  ; 

Unfolded  still  the  more,  more  visible, 

The  more  we  know ;   and  yet  is  reverenced  least, 

And  least  respected  in  the  human  Mind, 

Its  most  apparent  home. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  113 

From  'On  the  Power  of  Sound' 

BY  one  pervading  spirit 
Of  tones  and  numbers  all  things  are  controlled, 
As  sages  taught,  where  faith  was  found  to  merit 
Initiation  in  that  mystery  old. 
The  heavens,  whose  aspect  makes  our  minds  as  still 
As  they  themselves  appear  to  be, 
Innumerable  voices  fill 
With  everlasting  harmony  ; 
The  towering  headlands,  crowned  with  mist, 
Their  feet  among  the  billows,  know 
That  Ocean  is  a  mighty  harmonist  ; 
Thy  pinions,  universal  Air, 
Ever  waving  to  and  fro, 
Are  delegates  of  harmony,  and  bear 
Strains  that  support  the  Seasons  in  their  round  ; 
Stern  Winter  loves  a  dirge-like  sound. 

Break  forth  into  thanksgiving, 

Ye  banded  instruments  of  wind  and  chords  ; 

Unite,  to  magnify  the  Ever-living, 

Your  inarticulate  notes  with  the  voice  of  words ! 

Nor  hushed  be  service  from  the  lowing  mead, 

Nor  mute  the  forest  hum  of  noon  ; 

Thou  too  be  heard,  lone  eagle  !  freed 

From  snowy  peak  and  cloud,  attune 

Thy  hungry  barkings  to  the  hymn 

Of  joy,  that  from  her  utmost  walls 

The  six-days'  Work  by  naming  Seraphim 

Transmits  to  Heaven  !    As  Deep  to  Deep 

Shouting  through  one  valley  calls, 

All  worlds,  all  natures,  mood  and  measure  keep 

For  praise  and  ceaseless  gratulation,  poured 


ii4  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Into  the  ear  of  God,  their  Lord  ! 

A  Voice  to  Light  gave  Being  ; 

To  Time,  and  Man  his  earth-born  chronicler  ; 

A  Voice  shall  finish  doubt  and  dim  foreseeing, 

And  sweep  away  life's  visionary  stir  ; 

The  trumpet  (we,  intoxicate  with  pride, 

Arm  at  its  blast  for  deadly  wars) 

To  archangelic  lips  applied, 

The  grave  shall  open,  quench  the  stars. 

O  Silence  !  are  Man's  noisy  years 

No  more  than  moments  of  thy  life  ? 

Is  Harmony,  blest. queen  of  smiles  and  tears, 

With  her  smooth  tones  and  discords  just, 

Tempered  into  rapturous  strife, 

Thy  destined  bond-slave  ?    No  !  though  earth  be  dust 

And  vanish,  though  the  heavens  dissolve,  her  stay 

Is  in  the  WORD,  that  shall  not  pass  away. 

Ode :  Intimations  of  Immortality  from 
Recollections  of  Early  Childhood 

PHERE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
A          The  earth,  and  every  common  sight; 

To  me  did  seem 
-  Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  115 

Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare, 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief  : 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong  : 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep  ; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong  ; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ; 

Land  and  sea 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday  ; — 

Thou  Child  of  Joy, 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
Shepherd-boy  ! 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make  ;   I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 
Oh  evil  day  !   if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 


ii6  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

This  sweet  May-morning, 

And  the  Children  are  culling 
On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm  : — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear  ! 

— But  there  's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone  : 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  : 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar  : 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  ; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  117 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own  ; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 

And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind, 
And  no  unworthy  aim, 
The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 

To  make  her  Foster-child.,  her  Inmate  Man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 

And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size  ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes  ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song  : 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife  ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  *  humorous  stage  ' 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage  ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 
Thy  Soul's  immensity ; 


ii8  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet !    Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by  ; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 

O.joy  !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive  ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :   not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast : — 

Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  119 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  Thing  surprised  : 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence  :  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never  : 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  ! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 


izo  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower  ; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be ; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering  ; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they  ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  121 

From  ^L.ines  composed  a  few  miles  above 
Tintern 


FOR  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth  ;   but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.    And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;   a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  : 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.    Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains  ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye,  and  ear,  —  both  what  they  half  create, 
And  what  perceive  ;   well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The.  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

From  '  The  Prelude' 


PHUS  while  the  days  flew  by,  and  years  passed  on, 
J.  From  Nature  and  her  overflowing  soul 
I  had  received  so  much,  that  all  my  thoughts 
Were  steeped  in  feeling  ;   I  was  only  then 


122  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Contented,  when  with  bliss  ineffable 

I  felt  the  sentiment  of  Being  spread 

O'er  all  that  moves  and  all  that  seemeth  still ; 

O'er  all  that,  lost  beyond  the  reach  of  thought 

And  human  knowledge,  to  the  human  eye 

Invisible,  yet  liveth  to  the  heart ; 

O'er  all  that  leaps  and  runs,  and  shouts  and  sings, 

Or  beats  the  gladsome  air  ;  o'er  all  that  glides 

Beneath  the  wave,  yea,  in  the  wave  itself, 

And  mighty  depth  of  waters.'   Wonder  not 

If  high  the  transport,  great  the  joy  I  felt 

Communing  in  this  sort  through  earth  and  heaven 

With  every  form  of  creature,  as  it  looked 

Towards  the  Uncreated  with  a  countenance 

Of  adoration,  with  an  eye  of  love. 

One  song  they  sang,  and  it  was  audible, 

Most  audible,  then,  when  the  fleshly  ear, 

O'ercome  by  humblest  prelude  of  that  strain, 

Forgot  her  functions,  and  slept  undisturbed. 


— Of  that  external  scene  which  round  me  lay, 
Little,  in  this  abstraction,  did  I  see ; 
Remembered  less ;  but  I  had  inward  hopes 
And  swellings  of  the  spirit,  was  rapt  and  soothed, 
Conversed  with  promises,  had  glimmering  views 
How  life  pervades  the  undecaying  mind  ; 
How  the  immortal  soul  with  God-like  power 
Informs,  creates,  and  thaws  the  deepest  sleep 
That  time  can  lay  upon  her  ;  how  on  earth, 
Man,  if  he  do  but  live  within  the  light 
Of  high  endeavours,  daily  spreads  abroad 
His  being  armed  with  strength  that  cannot  fail. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  123 

in 

Visionary  power 

Attends  the  motions  of  the  viewless  winds, 
Embodied  in  the  mystery  of  words  : 
There,  darkness  makes  abode,  and  all  the  host 
Of  shadowy  things  work  endless  changes, — there, 
As  in  a  mansion  like  their  proper  home, 
Even  forms  and  substances  are  circumfused 
By  that  transparent  veil  with  light  divine, 
And,  through  the  turnings  intricate  of  verse, 
Present  themselves  as  objects  recognized, 
In  flashes,  and  with  glory  not  their  own. 

IV 

Imagination — here  the  Power  so  called 
Through  sad  incompetence  of  human  speech, 
That  awful  Power  rose  from  the  mind's  abyss 
Like  an  unfathered  vapour  that  enwraps, 
At  once,  some  lonely  traveller.    I  was  lost ; 
Halted  without  an  effort  to  break  through  ; 
But  to  my  conscious  soul  I  now  can  say — 
4  I  recognize  thy  glory  '  :  in  such  strength 
Of  usurpation,  when  the  light  of  sense 
Goes  out,  but  with  a  flash  that  has  revealed 
The  invisible  world,  doth  greatness  make  abode, 
There  harbours ;  whether  we  be  young  or  old, 
Our  destiny,  our  being's  heart  and  home, 
Is  with  infinitude,  and  only  there  ; 
With  hope  it  is,  hope  that  can  never  die, 
Effort,  and  expectation,  and  desire, 
And  something  evermore  about  to  be. 
Under  such  banners  militant,  the  soul 
Seeks  for  no  trophies,  struggles  for  no  spoils 
That  may  attest  her  prowess,  blest  in  thoughts 


124  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

That  are  their  own  perfection  and  reward, 
Strong  in  herself  and  in  beatitude 
That  hides  her,  like  the  mighty  flood  of  Nile 
Poured  from  his  fount  of  Abyssinian  clouds 
To  fertilize  the  whole  Egyptian  plain. 

v 

The  brook  and  road  1 

Were  fellow-travellers  in  this  gloomy  strait, 
And  with  them  did  we  journey  several  hours 
At  a  slow  pace.    The  immeasurable  height 
Of  woods  decaying,  never  to  be  decayed, 
The  stationary  blasts  of  waterfalls, 
And  in  the  narrow  rent  at  every  turn 
Winds  thwarting  winds,  bewildered  and  forlorn, 
The  torrents  shooting  from  the  clear  blue  sky, 
The  rocks  that  muttered  close  upon  our  ears, 
Black  drizzling  crags  that  spake  by  the  way-side 
As  if  a  voice  were  in  them,  the  sick  sight 
And  giddy  prospect  of  the  raving  stream, 
The  unfettered  clouds  and  region  of  the  Heavens, 
Tumult  and  peace,  the  darkness  and  the  light — 
Were  all  like  workings  of  one  mind,  the  features 
Of  the  same  face,  blossoms  upon  one  tree  ; 
Characters  of  the  great  Apocalypse, 
The  types  and  symbols  of  Eternity, 
Of  first,  and  last,  and  midst,  and  without  end. 

VI 

In  some  green  bower 

Rest,  and  be  not  alone,  but  have  thou  there 
The  One  who  is  thy  choice  of  all  the  world  : 
There  linger,  listening,  gazing,  with  delight 

1  The  passage  refers  to  the  Simplon  Pass. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  125 

Impassioned,  but  delight  how  pitiable  ! 

Unless  this  love  by  a  still  higher  love 

Be  hallowed,  love  that  breathes  not  without  awe  ; 

Love  that  adores,  but  on  the  knees  of  prayer, 

By  heaven  inspired  ;  that  frees  from  chains  the  soul, 

Lifted,  in  union  with  the  purest,  best, 

Of  earth-born  passions,  on  the  wings  of  praise 

Bearing  a  tribute  to  the  Almighty's  Throne. 

VII 

This  spiritual  Love  acts  not  .nor  can  exist 

Without  Imagination,  which,  in  truth, 

Is  but  another  name  for  absolute  power 

And  clearest  insight,  amplitude  of  mind, 

And  Reason  in  her  most  exalted  mood. 

This  faculty  hath  been  the  feeding  source 

Of  our  long  labour  -1 :  we  have  traced  the  stream 

From  the  blind  cavern  whence  is  faintly  heard 

Its  natal  murmur  ;   followed  it  to  light 

And  open  day  ;   accompanied  its  course 

Among  the  ways  of  Nature,  for  a  time 

Lost  sight  of  it  bewildered  and  engulphed  ; 

Then  given  it  greeting  as  it  rose  once  more 

In  strength,  reflecting  from  its  placid  breast 

The  works  of  man  and  face  of  human  life  ; 

And  lastly,  from  its  progress  have  we  drawn 

Faith  in  life  endless,  the  sustaining  thought 

Of  human  Being,  Eternity,  and  God. 

1  The  labour  shared  between  the  writer  and  the  reader  of  the 
Prelude. 


126 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

1772-1834 
From  ' Religious  Musings  ' 

i 

THERE  is  one  Mind,  one  omnipresent  Mind, 
Omnific.     His  most  holy  name  is  Love. 
Truth  of  subliming  import !  with  the  which 
Who  feeds  and  saturates  his  constant  soul, 
He  from  his  small  particular  orbit  flies 
With  blest  outstarting  !     From  himself  he  flies, 
Stands  in  the  sun,  and  with  no  partial  gaze 
Views  all  creation  ;  and  he  loves  it  all, 
And  blesses  it,  and  calls  it  very  good  ! 
This  is  indeed  to  dwell  with  the  Most  High  ! 
Cherubs  and  rapture-trembling  Seraphim 
Can  press  no  nearer  to  the  Almighty's  throne. 
But  that  we  roam  unconscious,  or  with  hearts 
Unfeeling  of  our  universal  Sire, 
And  that  in  His  vast  family  no  Cain 
Injures  uninjured  (in  her  best-aimed  blow 
Victorious  Murder  a  blind  Suicide) 
Haply  for  this  some  younger  Angel  now 
Looks  down  on  Human  Nature  :  and,  behold  ! 
A  sea  of  blood  bestrewed  with  wrecks,  where  mad 
Embattling  Interests  on  each  other  rush 
With  unhelmed  rage  ! 

'Tis  the  sublime  of  man, 
Our  noontide  Majesty,  to  know  ourselves 
Parts  and  proportions  of  one  wondrous  whole  ! 
This  fraternizes  man,  this  constitutes 
Our  charities  and  bearings.     But  'tis  God 
Diffused  through  all,  that  doth  make  all  one  whole  ; 
This  the  worst  superstition,  him  except 
Aught  to  desire,  Supreme  Reality  ! 
The  plenitude  and  permanence  of  bliss ! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE          127 


Toy-bewitched, 

Made  blind  by  lusts,  disherited  of  soul, 
No  common  centre  Man,  no  common  sire 
Knoweth  !     A  sordid  solitary  thing, 
Mid  countless  brethren  with  a  lonely  heart 
Through  courts  and  cities  the  smooth  savage  roams 
Feeling  himself,  his  own  low  self  the  whole  ; 
When  he  by  sacred  sympathy  might  make 
The  whole  one  Self  !     Self,  that  no  alien  knows  ! 
Self,  far  diffused  as  Fancy's  wing  can  travel ! 
Self,  spreading  still !     Oblivious  of  its  own, 
Yet  all  of  all  possessing  !     This  is  Faith  ! 
This  the  Messiah's  destined  victory  ! 


M 


From  * 'Dejection:  an  Ode' 

Y  genial  spirits  fail ; 
And  what  can  these1  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  off  my  breast  ? 
It  were  a  vain  endeavour, 
Though  I  should  gaze  for  ever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west  : 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  passion  and  the  life,  whose  fountains  are  within. 

0  Lady  !  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  Nature  live  : 

Ours  is  her  wedding  garment,  ours  her  shroud  ! 

And  would  we  aught  behold,  of  higher  worth, 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor  loveless  ever-anxious  crowd, 

Ah  !   from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

1  The  clouds,  the  stars,  and  the  moon,  at  which  the  poet  was 
gazing. 


128 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


Enveloping  the  Earth — 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element  ! 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 
Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 


1792-1822 


THE  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats  though  unseen  among  us, — visiting  ' 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to  flower, — 
Like  moonbeams  that  behind  some  piny  mountain  shower, 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance  ; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening, — 

Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, — 
Like  memory  of  music  fled, — 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

ii 
Spirit  of  BEAUTY,  that  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine  upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form, — where  art  thou  gone  ? 
Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our  state, 
This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate  ? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  for  ever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain-river, 
Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is  shown, 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and  birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom, — why  man  has  such  a  scope 
For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope  ? 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  129 

in 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given — 
Therefore  the  names  of  Demon,  Ghost,  and  Heaven, 
Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavour, 
Frail  spells — whose  uttered  charm  might  not  avail  to  sever, 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see, 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone — like  mist  o'er  mountains  driven, 
Or  music  by  the  night-wind  sent 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument, 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream, 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet  dream. 

iv  * 

Love,  Hope,  and  Self-esteem,  like  clouds  depart 
And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments  lent. 
Man  were  immortal,  and  omnipotent, 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art, 
Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state  within  his  heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies, 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes — 
Thou — that  to  human  thought  art  nourishment, 
Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame  ! 
Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came, 
Depart  not — lest  the  grave  should  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 

v 

While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 

Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave  and  ruin, 
And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 

Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 

I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our  youth  is  fed  ; 

MYST.  p 


1 3o 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


I  was  not  heard — I  saw  them  not — 

When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  winds  are  wooing 

All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 

News  of  birds  and  blossoming, — 

Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me  ; 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstasy  ! 

VI 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 

To  thee  and  thine — have  I  not  kept  the  vow  ? 
With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave :  they  have  in  visioned  bowers 

Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 

Outwatched  with  me  the  envious  night — 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow 

Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst  free 

This  world  from  its  dark  slavery, 

That  thou — O  awful  LOVELINESS, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  cannot  express. 

VII 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  noon  is  past — there  is  a  harmony 
In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky, 
Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  or  seen, 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been  ! 

Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 

Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 

Its  calm — to  one  who  worships  thee, 

And  every  form  containing  thee, 

Whom,  SPIRIT  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  131 

From    ''Adonais ' 

HE  is  made  one  with  Nature  :   there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird  ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own  ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never-wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely  :   he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling  there, 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear  ; 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear  ; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's  light. 

The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not ; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass  ; 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's  shadows  fly  ; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 


132  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost  seek  ! 
Follow  where  all  is  fled  ! — Rome's  azure  sky, 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my  Heart  ? 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before  :  from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed  ;   thou  shouldst  now  depart ! 
A  light  is  passed  from  the  revolving  year, 
And  man,  and  woman  ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind  whispers  near  : 
'Tis  Adonais  calls !   oh,  hasten  thither, 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join  together. 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst ;  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me  ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven, 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given  ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven  ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar  ; 
Whilst,  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


133 


JOHN  HENRY,  CARDINAL  NEWMAN 

1801-1890 
Mekhizedek 

Without  father,  without  mother,  without  descent ;  having  neither 
beginning  of  days,  nor  end  of  life. 

THRICE  bless'd  are  they,  who  feel  their  loneliness : 
To  whom  nor  voice  of  friends  nor  pleasant  scene 

Brings  that  on  which  the  sadden'd  heart  can  lean ; 
Yea,  the  rich  earth,  garb'd  in  her  daintiest  dress 
Of  light  and  joy,  doth  but  the  more  oppress, 

Claiming  responsive  smiles  and  rapture  high  ; 

Till,  sick  at  heart,  beyond  the  veil  they  fly, 
Seeking  His  Presence,  who  alone  can  bless. 
Such,  in  strange  days,  the  weapons  of  Heaven's  grace  ; 
When,  passing  o'er  the  high-born  Hebrew  line, 
He  forms  the  vessel  of  His  vast  design  ; 
Fatherless,  homeless,  reft  of  age  and  place, 
Sever'd  from  earth,  and  careless  of  its  wreck, 
Born  through  long  woe  His  rare  Mekhizedek. 

From  '  The  Dream  of  Gerontius ' 

Choir  of  Angelicals. 

A  DOUBLE  debt  he  has  to  pay— 
The  forfeit  of  his  sins  : 
The  chill  of  death  is  past,  and  now 
The  penance-fire  begins. 

Glory  to  Him,  who  evermore 

By  truth  and  justice  reigns ; 
Who  tears  the  soul  from  out  its  case, 

And  burns  away  its  stains ! 


134     JOHN  HENRY,  CARDINAL  NEWMAN 

Angel 

They  sing  of  thy  approaching  agony, 
Which  thou  so  eagerly  didst  question  of  : 
It  is  the  face  of  the  Incarnate  God 
Shall  smite  thee  with  that  keen  and  subtle  pain  ; 
And  yet  the  memory  which  it  leaves  will  be 
A  sovereign  febrifuge  to  heal  the  wound  ; 
And  yet  withal  it  will  the  wound  provoke, 
And  aggravate  and  widen  it  the  more. 

Soul 

Thou  speakest  mysteries  :   still  methinks  I  know 
To  disengage  the  tangle  of  thy  words  : 
Yet  rather  would  I  hear  thy  angel  voice, 
Than  for  myself  be  thy  interpreter. 

Angel 

When  then — if  such  thy  lot — thou  seest  thy  Judge, 
The  sight  of  Him  will  kindle  in  thy  heart 
All  tender,  gracious,  reverential  thoughts. 
Thou  wilt  be  sick  with  love,  and  yearn  for  Him, 
And  feel  as  though  thou  couldst  but  pity  Him, 
That  one  so  sweet  should  e'er  have  placed  Himself 
At  disadvantage  such,  as  to  be  used 
So  vilely  by  a  being  so  vile  as  thee. 
There  is  a  pleading  in  His  pensive  eyes 
Will  pierce  thee  to  the  quick,  and  trouble  thee. 
And  thou  wilt  hate  and  loathe  thyself  ;   for,  though 
Now  sinless,  thou  wilt  feel  that  thou  hast  sinn'd, 
As  never  thou  didst  feel ;  and  wilt  desire 
To  slink  away,  and  hide  thee  from  His  sight : 
And  yet  wilt  have  a  longing  ay  to  dwell 
Within  the  beauty  of  His  countenance. 


JOHN  HENRY,  CARDINAL  NEWMAN      135 

And  these  two  pains,  so  counter  and  so  keen, — 
The  longing  for  Him,  when  thou  seest  Him  not ; 
The  shame  of  self  at  thought  of  seeing  Him, — 
Will  be  thy  veriest,  sharpest  purgatory. 


The  Pillar  of  the  Cloud 

EAD,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home — 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 

Keep  Thou  my  feet :  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene, — one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  pray'd  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on. 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path  ;   but  now 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 

I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will :  remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on, 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone  ; 

And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 


136 


1803-1849 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

S.  Pa t rick's  Hymn  before  Tarn 
(FROM  THE  IRISH) 

/CHRIST,  as  a  light, 

\^>i  Illumine  and  guide  me  ! 
Christ,  as  a  shield,  o'ershadow  and  cover  me  I 
Christ  be  under  me  !     Christ  be  over  me  ! 

Christ  be  beside  me 

On  left  hand  and  right ! 
Christ  be  before  me,  behind  me,  about  me  ! 
Christ  this  day  be  within  and  without  me  ! 

Christ,  the  lowly  and  meek, 

Christ,  the  All-powerful,  be 
In  the  heart  of  each  to  whom  I  speak, 
In  the  mouth  of  each  who  speaks  to  me  ! 
In  all  who  draw  near  me, 
Or  see  me  or  hear  me  ! 


At  Tara  to-day,  in  this  awful  hour, 

I  call  on  the  Holy  Trinity  ! 
Glory  to  Him  who  reigneth  in  power, 
The  God  of  the  Elements,  Father,  and  Son, 
And  Paraclete  Spirit,  which  Three  are  the  One, 

The  ever-existing  Divinity  ! 

Salvation  dwells  with  the  Lord, 

With  Christ,  the  Omnipotent  Word. 

From  generation  to  generation 

Grant  us,  O  Lord,  Thy  grace  and  salvation  ! 


137 

i 
RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

1803-1882 
The  Problem 

I  LIKE  a  church  ;   I  like  a  cowl  ; 
I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul ; 
And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 
Fall  like  sweet  strains,  or  pensive  smiles ; 
Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 
Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure  ? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 

His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought ; 

Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle  ; 

Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 

The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old  ; 

The  litanies  of  nations  came, 

Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 

Up  from  the  burning  core  below, — 

The  canticles  of  love  and  woe  ; 

The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome, 

And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome, 

Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity  ; 

Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free  ; 

He  builded  better  than  he  knew  ; — 

The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird's  nest 
Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast  ? 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell  ? 
F3 


138  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads  ? 
Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 
Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone  ; 
And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids, 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids  ; 
O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 
As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye  ; 
For,  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere, 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air ; 
And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass ; 

Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 

The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 

To  the  vast  soul  that  o'er  him  planned  ; 

And  the  same  power  that  reared  the  shrine, 

Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 

Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 

Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 

Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 

And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken  ; 
The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 
In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 
One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  139 

I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise, — 
The  Book  itself  before  me  lies, 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines. 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 
I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear  ; 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 


Ode  to  Beauty 

WHO  gave  thee,  O  Beauty, 
The  keys  of  this  breast,— 
Too  credulous  lover 
Of  blest  and  unblest  ? 
Say,  when  in  lapsed  ages 
Thee  knew  I  of  old  ? 
Or  what  was  the  service 
For  which  I  was  sold  ? 
When  first  my  eyes  saw  thee, 
I  found  me  thy  thrall, 
By  magical  drawings, 
Sweet  tyrant  of  all ! 
I  drank  at  thy  fountain 
False  waters  of  thirst ; 
Thou  intimate  stranger, 
Thou  latest  and  first ! 
Thy  dangerous  glances 
Make  women  of  men  ; 
New-born,  we  are  melting 
Into  nature  again. 


140  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Lavish,  lavish  pro  miser, 
Nigh  persuading  gods  to  err  ! 
Guest  of  million  painted  forms, 
Which  in  turn  thy  glory  warms ! 
The  frailest  leaf,  the  mossy  bark, 
The  acorn's  cup,  the  raindrop's  arc, 
The  swinging  spider's  silver  line, 
The  ruby  of  the  drop  of  wine, 
The  shining  pebble  of  the  pond, 
Thou  inscribest  with  a  bond, 
In  thy  momentary  play, 
Would  bankrupt  nature  to  repay. 

Ah,  what  avails  it 

To  hide  or  to  shun 

Whom  the  Infinite  One 

Hath  granted  His  throne  ? 

The  heaven  high  over 

Is  the  deep's  lover  ; 

The  sun  and  sea, 

Informed  by  thee, 

Before  me  run, 

And  draw  me  on, 

Yet  fly  me  still, 

As  Fate  refuses 

To  me  the  heart  Fate  for  me  chooses. 

Is  it  that  my  opulent  soul 

Was  mingled  from  the  generous  whole  ; 

Sea-valleys  and  the  deep  of  skies 

Furnished  several  supplies ; 

And  the  sands  whereof  I'm  made 

Draw  me  to  them,  self-betrayed  ? 

I  turn  the  proud  portfolios 

Which  hold  the  grand  designs 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  141 

Of  Salvator,  of  Guercino, 

And  Piranesi's  lines. 

I  hear  the  lofty  paeans 

Of  the  masters  of  the  shell, 

Who  heard  the  starry  music 

And  recount  the  numbers  well ; 

Olympian  bards  who  sung 

Divine  Ideas  below, 

Which  always  find  us  young, 

And  always  keep  us  so. 

Oft,  in  streets  or  humblest  places, 

I  detect  far-wandered  graces, 

Which,  from  Eden  wide  astray, 

In  lonely  homes  have  lost  their  way. 

Thee  gliding  through  the  sea  of  form, 
Like  the  lightning  through  the  storm, 
Somewhat  not  to  be  possessed, 
Somewhat  not  to  be  caressed. 
No  feet  so  fleet  could  ever  find, 
No  perfect  form  could  ever  bind. 
Thou  eternal  fugitive, 
Hovering  over  all  that  live, 
Quick  and  skilful  to  inspire 
Sweet,  extravagant  desire, 
Starry  space  and  lily-bell 
Filling  with  thy  roseate  smell, 
Wilt  not  give  the  lips  to  taste 
Of  the  nectar  which  thou  hast. 

All  that 's  good  and  great  with  thee 
Works  in  close  conspiracy  ; 
Thou  hast  bribed  the  dark  and  lonely 
To  report  thy  features  only, 


142  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

And  the  cold  and  purple  morning 
Itself  with  thoughts  of  thee  adorning  ; 
The  leafy  dell,  the  city  mart, 
Equal  trophies  of  thine  art ; 
E'en  the  flowing  azure  air 
Thou  hast  touched  for  my  despair  ; 
And,  if  I  languish  into  dreams, 
Again  I  meet  the  ardent  beams. 
Queen  of  things !     I  dare  not  die 
In  Being's  deeps  past  ear  and  eye  ; 
Lest  there  I  find  the  same  deceiver, 
And  be  the  sport  of  Fate  for  ever. 
Dread  Power,  but  dear  !  if  God  thou  be, 
Unmake  me  quite,  or  give  thyself  to  me  ! 

Brahma 

IF  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 
They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near  ; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same  ; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear  ; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out ; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings  ; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven  ; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good  ! 

Find  me  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  143 

Worship 

'""PHIS  is  he,  who,  felled  by  foes, 

J.  Sprung  harmless  up,  refreshed  by  blows ! 
He  to  captivity  was  sold, 
But  him  no  prison-bars  would  hold  : 
Though  they  sealed  him  in  a  rock, 
Mountain  chains  he  can  unlock  : 
Thrown  to  lions  for  their  meat, 
The  crouching  lion  kissed  his  feet : 
Bound  to  the  stake,  no  flames  appalled, 
But  arched  o'er  him  an  honouring  vault. 
This  is  he  men  miscall  Fate, 
Threading  dark  ways,  arriving  late, 
But  ever  coming  in  time  to  crown 
The  truth,  and  hurl  wrong-doers  down. 
He  is  the  oldest,  and  best  known, 
More  near  than  aught  thou  call'st  thy  own, 
Yet,  greeted  in  another's  eyes, 
Disconcerts  with  glad  surprise. 
This  is  Jove,  who,  deaf  to  prayers, 
Floods  with  blessings  unawares. 
Draw,  if  thou  canst,  the  mystic  line 
Severing  rightly  his  from  thine, 
Which  is  human,  which  divine. 

ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAWKER 

1803-1875 
Aifhah  Shechmah     • 

A  SHAPE,  like  folded  light,  embodied  air, 
Yet  wreathed  with  flesh,  and  warm  : 
All  that  of  heaven  is  feminine  and  fair, 
Moulded  in  visible  form, 


i44 


ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAWKER 


She  stood,  the  Lady  Shechinah  of  earth, 

A  chancel  for  the  sky  : 
Where  woke,  to  breath  and  beauty,  God's  own  Birth, 

For  men  to  see  Him  by. 

Round  her,  too  pure  to  mingle  with  the  day, 

Light,  that  was  life,  abode ; 
Folded  within  her  fibres  meekly  lay 

The  link  of  boundless  God. 

So  linked,  so  blent,  that  when,  with  pulse  fulfilled, 

Moved  but  that  Infant  Hand, 
Far,  far  away,  His  conscious  Godhead  thrilled, 

And  stars  might  understand. 

Lo  !   where  they  pause,  with  inter-gathering  rest, 

The  Threefold,  and  the  One  ; 
And  lo,  He  binds  them  to  her  orient  breast, 

His  manhood  girded  on. 

The  zone,  where  two  glad  worlds  for  ever  meet, 

Beneath  that  bosom  ran  : 
Deep  in  that  womb  the  conquering  Paraclete 

Smote  Godhead  on  to  man. 


Sole  scene  among  the  stars,  where,  yearning,  glide 

The  Threefold  and  the  One  ; 
Her  God  upon  her  lap,  the  Virgin  Bride, 

Her  awful  Child,  her  Son  ! 


ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAWKER  145 

From  '  The  Quest  of  the  Sangraal ' 

T^HEN  came  Sir  Joseph,  hight,  of  Arimathee, 

J.  Bearing  that  awful  vase,  the  Sangraal ! 
The  vessel  of  the  Pasch,  Shere  Thursday  night : 
The  selfsame  Cup,  wherein  the  faithful  Wine 
Heard  God,  and  was  obedient  unto  Blood  ! 
Therewith  he  knelt,  and  gathered  blessed  drops 
From  his  dear  Master's  Side  that  sadly  fell, 
The  ruddy  dews  from  the  great  Tree  of  Life  : 
Sweet  Lord  !  what  treasures !  like  the  priceless  gems, 
Hid  in  the  tawny  casket  of  a  king — 
A  ransom  for  an  army,  one  by  one. 
That  wealth  he  cherished  long  ;   his  very  soul 
Around  his  ark  ;  bent,  as  before  a  shrine  ! 
He  dwelt  in  orient  Syria  :  God's  own  land  : 
The  ladder-foot  of  heaven — where  shadowy  shapes 
In  white  apparel  glided  up  and  down  ! 
His  home  was  like  a  garner,  full  of  corn 
And  wine  and  oil :  a  granary  of  God  ! 
Young  men,  that  no  one  knew,  went  in  and  out, 
With  a  far  look  in  their  eternal  eyes ! 
All  things  were  strange  and  rare  :  the  Sangraal 
As  though  it  clung  to  some  etherial  chain, 
Brought  down  high  heaven  to  earth  at  Arimathee. 
He  lived  long  centuries !   and  prophesied. 
A  girded  pilgrim  ever  and  anon  : 
Cross-staff  in  hand,  and  folded  at  his  side, 
The  mystic  marvel  of  the  feast  of  blood  ! 
Once  in  old  time  he  stood  in  this  dear  land, 
Enthralled  : — for  lo  !   a  sign  !  his  grounded  staff 
Took  root,  and  branched,  and  bloomed,  like  Aaron's  rod ; 
Thence  came  the  shrine,  the  cell :  therefore  he  dwelt, 
The  vassal  of  the  vase,  at  Avalon  ! 


i46 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

1806-1861 
Chorus  of  Eden  Spirits 

(Chanting  from  Paradise,    while  Adam  and  Eve 
fly  across  the  Sword- glare) 

HEARKEN,  oh  hearken  !  let  your  souls  behind  you 
Turn,  gently  moved  ! 
Our  voices  feel  along  the  Dread  to  find  you, 

O  lost,  beloved  ! 
Through  the  thick-shielded  and  strong-marshalled  angels, 

They  press  and  pierce  : 
Our  requiems  follow,  fast  on  our  evangels, — 

Voice  throbs  in  verse. 
We  are  but  orphaned  spirits  left  in  Eden 

A  time  ago  : 
God  gave  us  golden  cups,  and  we  were  bidden 

To  feed  you  so. 
But  now  our  right  hand  hath  no  cup  remaining, 

No  work  to  do, 
The  mystic  hydromel  is  spilt,  and  staining 

The  whole  earth  through. 
Most  ineradicable  stains,  for  showing 

(Not  interfused  !) 
That  brighter  colours  were  the  world's  foregoing, 

Than  shall  be  used. 
Hearken,  oh  hearken  !  ye  shall  hearken  surely 

For  years  and  years, 
The  noise  beside  you,  dripping  coldly,  purely, 

Of  spirits'  tears. 
The  yearning  to  a  beautiful*  denied  you, 

Shall  strain  your  powers. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING      147 

Ideal  sweetnesses  shall  over-glide  you, 

Resumed  from  ours. 
In  all  your  music,  our  pathetic  minor 

Your  ears  shall  cross ; 
And  all  good  gifts  shall  mind  you  of  diviner, 

With  sense  of  loss. 
We  shall  be  near  you  in  your  poet-languors 

And  wild  extremes, 
What  time  ye  vex  the  desert  with  vain  angers, 

Or  mock  with  dreams. 
And  when  upon  you,  weary  after  roaming, 

Death's  seal  is  put, 
By  the  foregone  ye  shall  discern  the  coming, 

Through  eyelids  shut. 


From  ''The  Soul's  Travelling 

GOD,  God ! 
With  a  child's  voice  I  cry, 
Weak,  sad,  confidingly — 

God,  God ! 

Thou  knowest,  eyelids,  raised  not  always  up 
Unto  Thy  love  (as  none  of  ours  are),  droop 

As  ours,  o'er  many  a  tear  ! 
Thou  knowest,  though  Thy  universe  is  broad, 
Two  little  tears  suffice  to  cover  all : 
Thou  knowest,  Thou,  who  art  so  prodigal 
Of  beauty,  we  are  oft  but  stricken  deer 
Expiring  in  the  woods — that  care  for  none 
Of  those  delightsome  flowers  they  die  upon. 

O  blissful  Mouth  which  breathed  the  mournful  breath 
We  name  our  souls,  self-spoilt ! — by  that  strong  passion 


148      ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

Which  paled  Thee  once  with  sighs, — by  that  strong  death 
Which  made  Thee  once  unbreathing — from  the  wrack 
Themselves  have  called  around  them,  call  them  back, 
Back  to  Thee  in  continuous  aspiration  ! 

For  here,  O  Lord, 

For  here  they  travel  vainly, — vainly  pass 
From  city-pavement  to  untrodden  sward, 
Where  the  lark  finds  her  deep  nest  in  the  grass 
Cold  with  the  earth's  last  dew.     Yea,  very  vain 
The  greatest  speed  of  all  these  souls  of  men  ' 
Unless  they  travel  upward  to  the  throne 
Where  sittest  THOU,  the  satisfying  ONE, 
With  help  for  sins  and  holy  perfectings 
For  all  requirements — while  the  archangel,  raising 
Unto  Thy  face  his  full  ecstatic  gazing, 
Forgets  the  rush  and  rapture  of  his  wings. 


Human  Life's  Mystery 

WE  sow  the  glebe,  we  reap  the  corn, 
We  build  the  house- where  we  may  rest, 
And  then,  at  moments,  suddenly, 
We  look  up  to  the  great  wide  sky, 
Inquiring  wherefore  we  were  born  .... 
For  earnest  or  for  jest  ? 


The  senses  folding  thick  and  dark 
About  the  stifled  soul  within, 

We  guess  diviner  things  beyond, 

And  yearn  to  them  with  yearning  fond  ; 

We  strike  out  blindly  to  a  mark 
Believed  in,  but  not  seen. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING        149 

We  vibrate  to  the  pant  and  thrill 

Wherewith  Eternity  has  curled 
In  serpent-twine  about  God's  seat ; 
While,  freshening  upward  to  His  feet, 
In  gradual  growth  His  full-leaved  will 

Expands  from  world  to  world. 

And,  in  the  tumult  and  excess 

Of  act  and  passion  under  sun, 
We  sometimes  hear — oh,  soft  and  far, 
As  silver  star  did  touch  with  star, 
The  kiss  of  Peace  and  Righteousness 

Through  all  things  that  are  done. 

God  keeps  His  holy  mysteries 

Just  on  the  outside  of  man's  dream  ; 
In  diapason  slow,  we  think 
To  hear  their  pinions  rise  and  sink, 
While  they  float  pure  beneath  His  eyes, 

Like  swans  adown  a  stream. 

Abstractions,  are  they,  from  the  forms 

Of  His  great  beauty  ? — exaltations 
From  His  great  glory  ? — strong  previsions 
Of  what  we  shall  be  ? — intuitions 
Of  what  we  are — in  calms  and  storms, 

Beyond  our  peace  and  passions  ? 

Things  nameless !   which,  in  passing  so, 

Do  stroke  us  with  a  subtle  grace. 
We  say,  '  Who  passes  ?  ' — they  are  dumb. 
We  cannot  see  them  go  or  come  : 
Their  touches  fall  soft,  cold,  as  snow 

Upon  a  blind  man's  face. 


150      ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

Yet,  touching  so,  they  draw  above 

Our  common  thoughts  to  Heaven's  unknown, 
Our  daily  joy  and  pain  advance 
To  a  divine  significance, 
Our  human  love — O  mortal  love, 

That  light  is  not  its  own  ! 

And  sometimes  horror  chills  our  blood 

To  be  so  near  such  mystic  Things, 
And  we  wrap  round  us  for  defence 
Our  purple  manners,  moods  of  sense — 
As  angels  from  the  face  of  God 

Stand  hidden  in  their  wings. 

And  sometimes  through  life's  heavy  swound 
We  grope  for  them  ! — with  strangled  breath 

We  stretch  our  hands  abroad  and  try 

To  reach  them  in  our  agony, — 

And  widen,  so,  the  broad  life-wound 
Which  soon  is  large  enough  for  death. 

From  ''Aurora  Leigh ' 

'  I  'RUTH,  so  far,  in  my  book  ; — the  truth  which  draws 

1  Through  all  things  upwards, — that  a  twofold  world 
Must  go  to  a  perfect  cosmos.     Natural  things 
And  spiritual, — who  separates  those  two 
In  art,  in  morals,  or  the  social  drift 
Tears  up  the  bond  of  nature  and  brings  death, 
Paints  futile  pictures,  writes  unreal  verse, 
Leads  vulgar  days,  deals  ignorantly  with  men, 
Is  wrong,  in  short,  at  all  points.     We  divide 
This  apple  of  life,  and  cut  it  through  the  pips, — 
The  perfect  round  which  fitted  Venus'  hand 
Has  perished  as  utterly  as  if  we  ate 
Both  halves.     Without  the  spiritual,  observe, 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING      151 

The  natural 's  impossible, — no  form, 

No  motion  :   without  sensuous,  spiritual 

Is  inappreciable, — no  beauty  or  power  : 

And  in  this  twofold  sphere  the  twofold  man 

(For  still  the  artist  is  intensely  a  man) 

Holds  firmly  by  the  natural,  to  reach 

The  spiritual  beyond  it, — fixes  still 

The  type  with  mortal  vision,  to  pierce  through, 

With  eyes  immortal,  to  the  antetype 

Some  call  the  ideal, — better  call  the  real, 

And  certain  to  be  called  so  presently 

When  things  shall  have  their  names.     Look  long  enough 

On  any  peasant's  face  here,  coarse  and  lined, 

You'll  catch  Antinous  somewhere  in  that  clay, 

As  perfect  featured  as  he  yearns  at  Rome 

From  marble  pale  with  beauty  ;   then  persist, 

And,  if  your  apprehension  's  competent, 

You'll  find  some  fairer  angel  at  his  back, 

As  much  exceeding  him  as  he  the  boor, 

And  pushing  him  with  empyreal  disdain 

For  ever  out  of  sight.     Aye,  Carrington 

Is  glad  of  such  a  creed  :  an  artist  must, 

Who  paints  a  tree,  a  leaf,  a  common  stone 

With  just  his  hand,  and  finds  it  suddenly 

A-piece  with  and  conterminous  to  his  soul. 

Why  else  do  these  things  move  him,  leaf,  or  stone  ? 

The  bird's  not  moved,  that  pecks  at  a  spring-shoot  ; 

Nor  yet  the  horse,  before  a  quarry,  a-graze  : 

But  man,  the  twofold  creature,  apprehends 

The  twofold  manner,  in  and  outwardly, 

And  nothing  in  the  world  comes  single  to  him, 

A  mere  itself, — cup,  column,  or  candlestick, 

All  patterns  of  what  shall  be  in  the  Mount ; 

The  whole  temporal  show  related  royally, 


152      ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

And  built  up  to  eterne  significance 

Through  the  open  arms  of  God.    '  There 's  nothing  great 

Nor  small ',  has  said  a  poet  of  our  day, 

Whose  voice  will  ring  beyond  the  curfew  of  eve 

And  not  be  thrown  out  by  the  matin's  bell : 

And  truly,  I  reiterate,  nothing's  small ! 

No  lily-muffled  hum  of  a  summer-bee, 

But  finds  some  coupling  with  the  spinning  stars  ; 

No  pebble  at  your  foot,  but  proves  a  sphere  ; 

No  chaffinch,  but  implies  the  cherubim  ; 

And  (glancing  on  my  own  thin,  veined  wrist), 

In  such  a  little  tremor  of  the  blood 

The  whole  strong  clamour  of  a  vehement  soul 

Doth  utter  itself  distinct.    Earth 's  crammed  with  heaven, 

And  every  common  bush  afire  with  God  ; 

But  only  he  who  sees,  takes  off  his'shoes, 

The  rest  sit  round  it  and  pluck  blackberries, 

And  daub  their  natural  faces  unaware 

More  and  more  from  the  first  similitude. 

RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH,  ARCHBISHOP 

OF  DUBLIN 

1807-1886 

'  If  there  had  anywhere ' 

IF  there  had  anywhere  appeared  in  space 
Another  place  of  refuge,  where  to  flee, 
Our  hearts  had  taken  refuge  in  that  place, 
And  not  with  Thee. 

For  we  against  creation's  bars  had  beat 

Like  prisoned  eagles,  through  great  worlds  had  sought 
Though  but  a  foot  of  ground  to  plant  our  feet, 
Where  Thou  wert  not. 


RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH          153 

And  only  when  we  found  in  earth  and  air, 

In  heaven  or  hell,  that  such  might  nowhere  be — 
That  we  could  not  flee  from  Thee  anywhere, 
We  fled  to  Thee. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

1809-1849 

The  Goddess  s  Song  from  ''Al 

SPIRIT  !   that  dwellest  where, 
In  the  deep  sky, 
The  terrible  and  fair, 

In  beauty  vie  ! 
Beyond  the  line  of  blue — 

The  boundary  of  the  star 
Which  turneth  at  the  view 

Of  thy  barrier  and  thy  bar — 
Of  the  barrier  overgone 

By  the  comets  who  were  cast 
From  their  pride  and  from  their  throne 

To  be  drudges  till  the  last — 
To  be  carriers  of  fire 

(The  red  fire  of  their  heart) 
With  speed  that  may  not  tire 

And  with  pain  that  shall  not  part — 
Who  livest — that  we  know — 

In  Eternity — we  feel — 
But  the  shadow  of  whose  brow 

What  spirit  shall  reveal  ? 
Though  the  beings  whom  thy  Nesace, 

Thy  messenger  hath  known, 
Have  dreamed  for  thy  Infinity 

A  model  of  their  own — 


154  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Thy  will  is  done,  O  God  ! 

The  star  hath  ridden  high 
Through  many  a  tempest,  but  she  rode 

Beneath  thy  burning  eye  ; 
And  here,  in  thought,  to  thee — 

In  thought  that  can  alone 
Ascend  thy  empire,  and  so  be 

A  partner  of  thy  throne — 
By  winged  Fantasy, 

My  embassy  is  given, 
Till  secrecy  shall  knowledge  be 

In  the  environs  of  Heaven. 


RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES,  LORD 

HOUGHTON 

1809-1885 

The  Sayings  of  Jtabia 


A  PIOUS  friend  one  day  of  Rabia  asked, 
How  she  had  learnt  the  truth  of  Allah  wholly  ? 
By  what  instructions  was  her  memory  tasked — 

How  was  her  heart  estranged  from  this  world's  folly  ? 

She  answered — *  Thou,  who  knowest  God  in  parts, 
Thy  spirit's  moods  and  processes  can  tell ; 

I  only  know  that  in  my  heart  of  hearts 

I  have  despised  myself  and  loved  Him  well.' 


Some  evil  upon  Rabia  fell, 
And  one  who  loved  and  knew  her  well 
Murmured  that  God  with  pain  undue 
Should  strike  a  child  so  fond  and  true  : 


RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES         155 

But  she  replied — '  Believe  and  trust 
That  all  I  suffer  is  most  just ; 
I  had  in  contemplation  striven 
To  realize  the  joys  of  heaven  ; 
I  had  extended  fancy's  flights 
Through  all  that  region  of  delights, — 
Had  counted,  till  the  numbers  failed, 
The  pleasures  on  the  blest  entailed, — 
Had  sounded  the  ecstatic  rest 
I  should  enjoy  on  Allah's  breast ; 
And  for  those  thoughts  I  now  atone 
That  were  of  something  of  my  own, 
And  were  not  thoughts  of  Him  alone.' 


in 
When  Rabia  unto  Mekkeh  came, 

She  stood  awhile  apart — alone, 
Nor  joined  the  crowd  with  hearts  on  flame 

Collected  round  the  sacred  stone. 

She,  like  the  rest,  with  toil  had  crossed 
The  waves  of  water,  rock,  and  sand, 

And  now,  as  one  long  tempest-tossed, 
Beheld  the  Kaabeh's  promised  land. 

Yet  in  her  eyes  no  transport  glistened  ; 

She  seemed  with  shame  and  sorrow  bowed  ; 
The  shouts  of  prayer  she  hardly  listened, 

But  beat  her  heart  and  cried  aloud  : — 

'  O  heart !  weak  follower  of  the  weak, 

That  thou  should'st  traverse  land  and  sea, 

In  this  far  place  that  God  to  seek 
Who  long  ago  had  come  to  thee  ! ' 


156         RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES 

IV 

Round  holy  Rabia's  suffering  bed 

The  wise  men  gathered,  gazing  gravely — 

'  Daughter  of  God  !  '  the  youngest  said, 
'  Endure  thy  Father's  chastening  bravely  ; 

They  who  have  steeped  their  souls  in  prayer 

Can  every  anguish  calmly  bear.' 

She  answered  not,  and  turned  aside, 
Though  not  reproachfully  nor  sadly ; 

'  Daughter  of  God  ! '  the  eldest  cried, 
1  Sustain  thy  Father's  chastening  gladly ; 

They  who  have  learnt  to  pray  aright, 

From  pain's  dark  well  draw  up  delight.' 

Then  she  spoke  out — '  Your  words  are  fair  ; 

But,  oh  !   the  truth  lies  deeper  still ; 
I  know  not,  when  absorbed  in  prayer, 

Pleasure  or  pain,  or  good  or  ill ; 
They  who  God's  face  can  understand 
Feel  not  the  motions  of  His  hand.' 


From  '  Ghazeks ' 

AjL  things  once  are  things  for  ever ; 
Soul,  once  living,  lives  for  ever ; 
Blame  not  what  is  only  once, 
When  that  once  endures  for  ever ; 
Love,  once  felt,  though  soon  forgot, 
Moulds  the  heart  to  good  for  ever ; 
Once  betrayed  from  childly  faith, 
Man  is  conscious  man  for  ever  ; 
Once  the  void  of  life  revealed, 
It  must  deepen  on  for  ever, 


RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES          157 

Unless  God  fill  up  the  heart 
With  Himself  for  once  and  ever  : 
Once  made  God  and  man  at  once, 
God  and  man  are  one  for  ever. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

1809-1892 
St.  Agnes'  Eve 

DEEP  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 
Are  sparkling  to  the  moon : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapour  goes  : 

May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground  ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee  ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord  !   and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 


158  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strows  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up  !   the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  ! 


Sir  Galahad 

MY  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 
My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favours  fall ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall : 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  159 

But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine  : 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns  : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride  ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there  ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chaunts  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark ; 
I  leap  on  board  :   no  helmsman  steers  : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail  : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !   blood  of  God  ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 


160  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and  mail ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields 

A  maiden  knight — to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear  ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odours  haunt  my  dreams ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armour  that  I  wear, 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move' the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear  : 
1  O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near.' 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  161 

So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange  ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


The  Higher  Pantheism 

THE  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and 
the  plains — 
Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who  reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He  ?    tho'  He  be  not  that  which  He 

seems  ? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not  live  in 

dreams  ? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and  limb, 
Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division  from  Him  ? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee  :   thyself  art  the  reason  why  ; 
For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power  to  feel 
ll  am  P? 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee ;   and  thou  fulfillest  thy 

doom, 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled  splendour  and 

gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with  Spirit 

can  meet — 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands  and 

feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise  ;  O  Soul,  and  let  us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His  voice. 
MYST.  G 


162  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

Law  is  God,  say  some  :  no  God  at  all,  says  the  fool ; 
For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight  staff  bent  in 
a  pool ; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of  man  can 
not  see  ; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision — were  it  not  He  ? 


'  Flower  in  the  crannied  wall3 

FLOWER  in  the  crannied  wall, 
I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies ; — 
Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


From  '  In  Memoriam  ' 

i 

TT^VEAR  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
\_J    So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal ; 

O  loved  the  most,  when  most  I  feel 
There,  is  a  lower  and  a  higher  ; 

Known  and  unknown  ;   human,  divine  ; 

Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye  ; 

Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not  die, 
Mine,  mine,  for  ever,  ever  mine ; 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be ; 

Loved  deeplier,  darklier  understood ; 

Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good, 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  163 

ii 
Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air  ; 

I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run  ; 

Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ?  I  cannot  guess ; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now  ; 

Tho'  mix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice  ; 

I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice  ; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 

in 
O  living  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock, 

Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 
Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 

A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 

A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 
To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


164  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

From  '  The  Holy  Grail' 


BUT  she,  the  wan  sweet  maiden,  shore  away 
Clean  from  her  forehead  all  that  wealth  of  hair 
Which  made  a  silken  mat-work  for  her  feet ; 
And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and  long 
A  strong  sword-belt,  and  wove  with  silver  thread 
And  crimson  in  the  belt  a  strange  device, 
A  crimson  grail  within  a  silver  beam  ; 
And  saw  the  bright  boy-knight,  and  bound  it  on  him, 
Saying,  '  My  knight,  my  love,  my  knight  of  heaven, 
O  thou,  my  love,  whose  love  is  one  with  mine, 
I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind  my  belt. 
Go  forth,  for  thou  shalt  see  what  I  have  seen, 
And  break  thro'  all,  till  one  will  crown  thee  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city  : '  and  as  she  spake 
She  sent  the  deathless  passion  in  her  eyes 
Thro'  him,  and  made  him  hers,  and  laid  her  mind 
On  him,  and  he  believed  in  her  belief. 

Then  came  a  year  of  miracle  :   O  brother, 
In  our  great  hall  there  stood  a  vacant  chair, 
Fashion'd  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away, 
And  carven  with  strange  figures ;  and  in  and  out 
The  figures,  like  a  serpent,  ran  a  scroll 
Of  letters  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  read. 
And  Merlin  call'd  it  '  The  Siege  perilous,' 
Perilous  for  good  and  ill ;   '  for  there,'  he  said, 
'  No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose  himself  : ' 
And  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin  sat 
In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost ;  but  he, 
Galahad,  when  he  heard  of  Merlin's  doom, 
Cried,  '  If  I  lose  myself,  I  save  myself  !  ' 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  165 


.  .  .  When  the  hermit  made  an  end, 
In  silver  armour  suddenly  Galahad  shone 
Before  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  enter'd,  and  we  knelt  in  prayer. 
And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burning  thirst, 
And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I  saw 
The  holy  elements  alone  ;   but  he  : 
*  Saw  ye  no  more  ?   I,  Galahad,  saw  the  Grail, 
The  Holy  Grail,  descend  upon  the  shrine  : 
I  saw  the  fiery  face  as  of  a  child 
That  smote  itself  into  the  bread,  and  went ; 
And  hither  am  I  come  ;  and  never  yet 
Hath  what  thy  sister  taught  me  first  to  see, 
This  Holy  Thing,  fail'd  from  my  side,  nor  come 
Cover'd,  but  moving  with  me  night  and  day, 
Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 
Blood-red,  and  sliding  down  the  blacken'd  marsh 
Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain  top 
Blood-red,  and  in  the  sleeping  mere  below 
Blood-red.    And  in  the  strength  of  this  I  rode, 
Shattering  all  evil  customs  everywhere, 
And  past  thro'  Pagan  realms,  and  made  them  mine, 
And  clash'd  with  Pagan  hordes,  and  bore  them  down, 
And  broke  thro'  all,  and  in  the  strength  of  this 
Come  victor.    But  my  time  is  hard  at  hand, 
And  hence  I  go  ;  and  one  will  crown  me  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city  ;  and  come  thou,  too, 
For  thou  shalt  see  the  vision  when  I  go.' 

While  thus  he  spake,  his  eye,  dwelling  on  mine, 
Drew  me,  with  power  upon  me,  till  I  grew 
One  with  him,  to  believe  as  he  believed. 
Then,  when  the  day  began  to  wane,  we  went. 


166  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

There  rose  a  hill  that  none  but  man  could  climb, 
Scarr'd  with  a  hundred  wintry  watercourses — 
Storm  at  the  top,  and  when  we  gain'd  it,  storm 
Round  us  and  death  ;  for  every  moment  glanced 
His  silver  arms  and  gloom'd  :  so  quick  and  thick 
The  lightnings  here  and  there  to  left  and  right 
Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about  us,  dead, 
Yea,  rotten  with  a  hundred  years  of  death, 
Sprang  into  fire  :  and  at  the  base  we  found 
On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
A  great  black  swamp  and  of  an  evil  smell,    • 
Part  black,  part  whiten'd  with  the  bones  of  men, 
Not  to  be  crost,  save  that  some  ancient  king 
Had  built  a  way,  where,  link'd  with  many  a  bridge, 
A  thousand  piers  ran  into  the  great  Sea. 
And  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge  by  bridge, 
And  every  bridge  as  quickly  as  he  crost 
Sprang  into  fire  and  vanish'd,  tho'  I  yearn'd 
To  follow  ;  and  thrice  above  him  all  the  heavens 
Open'd  and  blazed  with  thunder  such  as  seem'd 
Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God  :  and  first 
At  once  I  saw  him  far  on  the  great  Sea, 
In  silver-shining  armour  starry-clear  ; 
And  o'er  his  head  the  Holy  Vessel  hung 
Clothed  in  white  samite  or  a  luminous  cloud. 
And  with  exceeding  swiftness  ran  the  boat, 
If  boat  it  were — I  saw  not  whence  it  came. 
And  when  the  heavens  open'd  and  blazed  again 
Roaring,  I  saw  him  like  a  silver  star — 
And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  the  boat 
Become  a  living  creature  clad  with  wings  ? 
And  o'er  his  head  the  Holy  Vessel  hung 
Redder  than  any  rose,  a  joy  to  me, 
For  now  I  knew  the  veil  had  been  withdrawn. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  167 

Then  in  a  moment  when  they  blazed  again 
Opening,  I  saw  the  least  of  little  stars 
Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight  beyond  the  star 
I  saw  the  spiritual  city  and  all  her  spires 
And  gateways  in  a  glory  like  one  pearl — 
No  larger,  tho'  the  goal  of  all  the  saints — 
Strike  from  the  sea  ;  and  from  the  star  there  shot 
A  rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and  there 
Dwelt,  and  I  knew  it  was  the  Holy  Grail, 
Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again  shall  see. 

The  Human  Cry 

HALLOWED  be  Thy  name— Halleluiah  !— 
Infinite  Ideality ! 
Immeasurable  Reality ! 
Infinite  Personality ! 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name — Halleluiah  ! 

We  feel  we  are  nothing — for  all  is  Thou  and  in  Thee  ; 
We  feel  we  are  something — that  also  has  come  from  Thee  ; 
We  know  we  are  nothing — but  Thou  wilt  help  us  to  be. 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name — Halleluiah  ! 

From  '  The  Ancient  Sage ' 

IF  thou  would'st  hear  the  Nameless,  and  wilt  dive 
Into  the  Temple-cave  of  thine  own  self, 
There,  brooding  by  the  central  altar,  thou 
May'st  haply  learn  the  Nameless  hath  a  voice, 
By  which  thou  wilt  abide,  if  thou  be  wise, 
As  if  thou  knewest,  tho'  thou  canst  not  know  ; 
For  Knowledge  is  the  swallow  on  the  lake 
That  sees  and  stirs  the  surface-shadow  there 


168  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

But  never  yet  hath  dipt  into  the  abysm, 
The  Abysm  of  all  Abysms,  beneath,  within 
The  blue  of  sky  and  sea,  the  green  of  earth, 
And  in  the  million-millionth  of  a  grain 
Which  cleft  and  cleft  again  for  evermore, 
And  ever  vanishing,  never  vanishes, 
To  me,  my  son,  more  mystic  than  myself, 
Or  even  than  the  Nameless  is  to  me. 

And  when  thou  sendest  thy  free  soul  thro'  heaven, 
Nor  understandest  bound  nor  boundlessness, 
Thou  seest  the  Nameless  of  the  hundred  names. 

And  if  the  Nameless  should  withdraw  from  all 
Thy  frailty  counts  most  real,  all  thy  world 
Might  vanish  like  thy  shadow  in  the  dark. 

'  And  since — from  when  this  earth  began — 

The  Nameless  never  came 
Among  us,  never  spake  with  man, 

And  never  named  the  Name  ' — 

Thou  canst  not  prove  the  Nameless,  O  my  son, 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  the  world  thou  movest  in, 
Thou  canst  not  prove  that  thou  art  body  alone, 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art  spirit  alone, 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art  both  in  one : 
Thou  canst  not  prove  thou  art  immortal,  no 
Nor  yet  that  thou  art  mortal — nay  my  son, 
Thou  canst  not  prove  that  I,  who  speak  with  thee, 
Am  not  thyself  in  converse  with  thyself, 
For  nothing  worthy  proving  can  be  proven, 
Nor  yet  disproven  :   wherefore  thou  be  wise, 
Cleave  ever  to  the  sunnier  side  of  doubt, 
And  cling  to  Faith  beyond  the  forms  of  Faith  ! 
She  reels  not  in  the  storm  of  warring  words, 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  169 

She  brightens  at  the  clash  of  '  Yes  >  and  *  No  ', 

She  sees  the  Best  that  glimmers  thro'  the  Worst, 

She  feels  the  Sun  is  hid  but  for  a  night, 

She  spies  the  summer  thro'  the  winter  bud, 

She  tastes  the  fruit  before  the  blossom  falls, 

She  hears  the  lark  within  the  songless  egg, 

She  finds  the  fountain  where  they  wail'd  *  Mirage  ' ! 


JOHN  STUART  BLACKIE 

1809-1895 

things  are  full  of  God 

A^L  things  are  full  of  God.    Thus  spoke 
Wise  Thales  in  the  days 
When  subtle  Greece  to  thought  awoke 

And  soared  in  lofty  ways. 
And  now  what  wisdom  have  we  more  I 

No  sage  divining-rod 
Hath  taught  than  this  a  deeper  lore, 

ALL  THINGS  ARE  FULL  OF  GOD. 

The  Light  that  gloweth  in  the  sky 

And  shimmers  in  the  sea, 
That  quivers  in  the  painted  fly 

And  gems  the  pictured  lea, 
The  million  hues  of  Heaven  above 

And  Earth  below  are  one, 
And  every  lightful  eye  ddth  love 

The  primal  light,  the  Sun. 

Even  so,  all  vital  virtue  flows 

From  life's  first  fountain,  God  ; 
And  he  who  feels,  and  he  who  knows, 

Doth  feel  and  know  from  God. 
G3 


170  JOHN  STUART  BLACKIE 

As  fishes  swim  in  briny  sea, 
As  fowl  do  float  in  air, 

From  Thy  embrace  we  cannot  flee ; 
We  breathe,  and  Thou  art  there. 

Go,  take  thy  glass,  astronomer, 

And  all  the  girth  survey 
Of  sphere  harmonious  linked  to  sphere, 

In  endless  bright  array. 
All  that  far-reaching  Science  there 

Can  measure  with  her  rod, 
All  powers,  all  laws,  are  but  the  fair 

Embodied  thoughts  of  God. 


Trimurti 

TRIMURTI,  Trimurti, 
Despise  not  the  name  ; 
Think  and  know 

Before  thou  blame  ! 

Look  upon  the  face  of  Nature 

In  the  flush  of  June  ; 
BRAHMA  is  the  great  Creator, 

Life  is  Brahma's  boon. 
Dost  thou  hear  the  zephyr  blowing 

That  is  Brahma's  breath, 
Vital  breath,  live  virtue  showing 

'Neath  the  ribs  of  death. 
Dost  thou  see  the  fountain  flowing  ? 

That  is  Brahma's  blood, 
Lucid  blood — the  same  is  glowing 

In  the  purpling  bud. 


JOHN  STUART  BLACKIE  171 

Brahma's  Eyes  look  forth  divining 

From  the  welkin's  brow, 
Full  bright  eyes — the  same  are  shining 

In  the  sacred  cow. 
Air,  and  Fire,  and  running  River, 

And  the  procreant  clod, 
Are  but  faces  changing  ever 

Of  one  changeless  God. 
When  thy  winged  thought  ascendeth 

Where  high  thoughts  are  free, 
This  is  Brahma  when  he  lendeth 

Half  the  God  to  thee. 
Brahma  is  the  great  Creator, 

Life  a  mystic  drama  ; 
Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  living  Nature 

Are  but  masks  of  Brahma. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

1812-1889 
From  '  Pauline ' 

OGOD,   where    does    this   tend — these   struggling 
aims  ? 

What  would  I  have  ?  What  is  this  '  s-leep ',  which  seems 
To  bound  all  ?   can  there  be  a  *  waking  '  point 
Of  crowning  life  ?    The  soul  would  never  rule — 
It  would  be  first  in  all  things — it  would  have 
Its  utmost  pleasure  filled, — but  that  complete 
Commanding  for  commanding  sickens  it. 
The  last  point  I  can  trace  is,  rest  beneath 
Some  better  essence  than  itself — in  weakness ; 
This  is  '  myself ' — not  what  I  think  should  be 
And  what  is  that  I  hunger  for  but  God  ? 


172 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


My  God,  my  God  !  let  me  for  once  look  on  thee 

As  tho'  nought  else  existed  :  we  alone. 

And  as  creation  crumbles,  my  soul's  spark 

Expands  till  I  can  say,  '  Even  from  myself 

I  need  thee,  and  I  feel  thee,  and  I  love  thee  ; 

I  do  not  plead  my  rapture  in  thy  works 

For  love  of  thee — or  that  I  feel  as  one 

Who  cannot  die — but  there  is  that  in  me 

Which  turns  to  thee,  which  loves,  or  which  should  love.' 

Why  have  I  girt  myself  with  this  hell-dress  ? 

Why  have  I  laboured  to  put  out  my  life  ? 

Is  it  not  in  my  nature  to  adore, 

And  e'en  for  all  my  reason  do  I  not 

Feel  him,  and  thank  him,  and  pray  to  him — now  ? 

Can  I  forgo  the  trust  that  he  loves  me  ? 

Do  I  not  feel  a  love  which  only  ONE  .  .  . 

0  thou  pale  form,  so  dimly  seen,  deep-eyed, 

1  have  denied  thee  calmly — do  I  not 

Pant  when  I  read  of  thy  consummate  deeds, 
•  And  burn  to  see  thy  calm  pure  truths  out-flash 
The  brightest  gleams  of  earth's  philosophy  ? 
Do  I  not  shake  to  hear  aught  question  thee  ? 
If  I  am  erring  save  me,  madden  me, 
Take  from  me  powers  and  pleasures — let  me  die. 
Ages,  so  I  see  thee  :   I  am  knit  round 
As  with  a  charm,  by  sin  and  lust  and  pride, 
Yet  tho'  my  wandering  dreams  have  seen  all  shapes 
Of  strange  delight,  oft  have  I  stood  by  thee — 
Have  I  been  keeping  lonely  watch  with  thee 
In  the  damp  night  by  weeping  Olivet, 
Or  leaning  on  thy  bosom,  proudly  less — 
Or  dying  with  thee  on  the  lonely  cross — 
Or  witnessing  thy  bursting  from  the  tomb  ! 


ROBERT  BROWNING  173 

From  4  Paracelsus ' 


TRUTH  is  within  ourselves ;  it  takes  no  rise 
From  outward  things,  whate'er  you  may  believe. 
There  is  an  inmost  centre  in  us  all, 
Where  truth  abides  in  fullness ;   and  around, 
Wall  upon  wall,  the  gross  flesh  hems  it  in, 
This  perfect,  clear  perception — which  is  truth. 
A  baffling  and  perverting  carnal  mesh 
Binds  it,  and  makes  all  error :  and,  to  KNOW, 
Rather  consists  in  opening  out  a  way 
Whence  the  imprisoned  splendour  may  escape, 
Than  in  effecting  entry  for  a  light 
Supposed  to  be  without. 

ii 

I  knew,  I  felt,  (perception  unexpressed, 
Uncomprehended  by  our  narrow  thought, 
But  somehow  felt  and  known  in  every  shift 
And  change  in  the  spirit, — nay,  in  every  pore 
Of  the  body,  even,) — what  God  is,  what  we  are 
What  life  is — how  God  tastes  an  infinite  joy 
In  infinite  ways — one  everlasting  bliss, 
From  whom  all  being  emanates,  all  power 
Proceeds ;  in  whom  is  life  for  evermore, 
Yet  whom  existence  in  its  lowest  form 
Includes ;   where  dwells  enjoyment  there  is  he  : 
With  still  a  flying  point  of  bliss  remote, 
A  happiness  in  store  afar,  a  sphere 
Of  distant  glory  in  full  view  ;  thus  climbs 
Pleasure  its  heights  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
The  centre-fire  heaves  underneath  the  earth, 
And  the  earth  changes  like  a  human  face  ; 


174  ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  molten  ore  bursts  up  among  the  rocks, 

Winds  into  the  stone's  heart,  outbranches  bright 

In  hidden  mines,  spots  barren  river-beds, 

Crumbles  into  fine  sand  where  sunbeams  bask — 

God  joys  therein  !    The  wroth  sea's  waves  are  edged 

With  foam,  white  as  the  bitten  lip  of  hate, 

When,  in  the  solitary  waste,  strange  groups 

Of  young  volcanos  come  up,  cyclops-like, 

Staring  together  with  their  eyes  on  flame — 

God  tastes  a  pleasure  in  their  uncouth  pride. 

Then  all  is  still ;  earth  is  a  wintry  clod  : 

But  spring-wind,  like  a  dancing  psaltress,  passes 

Over  its  breast  to  waken  it,  rare  verdure 

Buds  tenderly  upon  rough  banks,  between 

The  withered  tree-roots  and  the  cracks  of  frost, 

Like  a  smile  striving  with  a  wrinkled  face  ; 

The  grass  grows  bright,  the  boughs  are  swoln  with  blooms 

Like  chrysalids  impatient  for  the  air, 

The  shining  dorrs  are  busy,  beetles  run 

Along  the  furrows,  ants  make  their  ado  ; 

Above,  birds  fly  in  merry  flocks,  the  lark 

Soars  up  and  up,  shivering  for  very  joy  ; 

Afar  the  ocean  sleeps ;  white  fishing-gulls 

Flit  where  the  strand  is  purple  with  its  tribe 

Of  nested  limpets ;   savage  creatures  seek 

Their  loves  in  wood  and  plain — and  God  renews 

His  ancient  rapture.    Thus  He  dwells  in  all, 

From  life's  minute  beginnings,  up  at  last 

To  man — the  consummation  of  this  scheme 

Of  being,  the  completion  of  this  sphere 

Of  life  :  whose  attributes  had  here  and  there 

Been  scattered  o'er  the  visible  world  before, 

Asking  to  be  combined,  dim  fragments  meant 

To  be  united  in  some  wondrous  whole, 


ROBERT  BROWNING  175 

Imperfect  qualities  throughout  creation, 
Suggesting  some  one  creature  yet  to  make, 
Some  point  where  all  those  scattered  rays  should  meet 
Convergent  in  the  faculties  of  man. 


From  'Saul9 

I  HAVE  gone  the  whole  round  of  Creation  :   I  saw  and 
I  spoke  ! 
I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  received  hi  my 

brain 
And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  His  handwork — returned 

Him  again 

His  creation's  approval  or  censure  :  I  spoke  as  I  saw. 
I  report,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work — all's  love,  yet  all's 

law. 
Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  He  lent  me.    Each  faculty 

tasked 
To  perceive  Him,  has  gained  an  abyss,  where  a  dewdrop 

was  asked. 
Have  I  knowledge  ?    confounded  it  shrivels  at  Wisdom 

laid  bare. 
Have  I  forethought  ?    how  purblind,  how  blank,  to  the 

Infinite  Care  ! 

Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image  success  ? 
I  but  open  my  eyes, — and  perfection,  no  more  and  no  less, 
In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and  God  is  seen 

God 
In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the  soul  and  the 

clod. 

And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me,  I  ever  renew 
(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending  upraises 

it  too) 


i76 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


The  submission  of  Man's  nothing-perfect  to  God's  All- 
Complete, 

As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to  His  feet ! 
Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience,  this  Deity  known, 
I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some  gift  of  my  own. 
There  's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard  to  hoodwink, 
I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance,  (I  laugh  as  I  think) 
Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot  ye,  I  worst 
E'en  the  Giver  in  one  gift. — Behold !  I  could  love  if  I  durst ! 
But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man  may  o'ertake 
God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love  :   I  abstain  for 

love's  sake. 
— What,  my  soul  ?   see  thus  far  and  no  farther  ?   when 

doors  great  and  small, 
Nine-and-ninety   flew  ope   at   our   touch,   should   the 

hundredth  appal  ? 
In    the    least    things   have    faith,  yet  distrust  in   the 

greatest  of  all  ? 

Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's  ultimate  gift, 
That  I  doubt  His  own  love  can  compete  with  it  ?  here, 

the  parts  shift  ? 
Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  Creator,  the  end,  what 

Began  ? 

Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do  all  for  this  man, 
And  dare  doubt  He  alone  shall  not  help  him,  who  yet 

alone  can  ? 
Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the  bare  will,  much 

less  power, 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the  marvellous 

dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with  ?   to  make  such 

a  soul, 
Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  insphering  the 

whole  ? 


ROBERT  BROWNING  177 

And  doth  it   not  enter  my  mind   (as   my  warm  tears 

attest) 
These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and  give  one 

more,  the  best  ? 
Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  maintain  at  the 

height 
This  perfection — succeed  with  life's  dayspring,  death's 

minute  of  night  ? 

Interpose  at  the  difficult  minute,  snatch  Saul,  the  mistake, 
Saul,  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now — and  bid  him 

awake 
From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude,  to  find 

himself  set 
Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life, — a  new  harmony 

yet 
To  be  run,  and  continued,  and  ended — who  knows  ? — 

or  endure  ! 
The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of  the  rest  to 

make  sure ; 

By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning  intensified  bliss, 
And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose,  by  the  struggles 

in  this. 


I  believe  it !    'tis  Thou,  God,  that  givest,  'tis  I  who 

receive  : 

In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  Thy  will  is  my  power  to  believe. 
All 's  one  gift :  Thou  canst  grant  it  moreover,  as  prompt 

to  my  prayer 
As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these  arms  to  the 

air. 
From  Thy  will,  stream  the  worlds,  life  and  nature,  thy 

dread  Sabaoth  : 
/  will  ? — the  mere  atoms  despise  me  !   why  am  I  not  loth 


I78 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too  ?  why  is  it  I  dare 
Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance  ?  what  stops  my 

despair  ? 
This ; — 'tis  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him,  but 

what  man  Would  do  ! 
See  the  King — I  would  help  him  but  cannot,  the  wishes 

fall  through. 
Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow,  grow  poor  to 

enrich, 
To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would — knowing 

which, 
I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.     Oh,  speak  through 

me  now ! 
Would  I  suffer  for  him  that  I  love  ?    So  wouldst  Thou — 

so  wilt  Thou  ! 
So  shall  crown  Thee  the  topmost,  ineffablest,  uttermost 

crown — 
And  Thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave  up  nor 

down 

One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in  !  It  is  by  no  breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins  issue  with 

death  ! 

As  Thy  Love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty  be  proved 
Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for  it,  of  being  Beloved  ! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most ;  the  strongest  shall 

stand  the  most  weak. 
'Tis  the  weakness  in  strength,  that  I  cry  for  !   my  flesh, 

that  I  seek 

In  the  Godhead  !  I  seek  and  I  find  it.  O  Saul,  it  shall  be 
A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee  ;  a  Man  like  to  me, 
Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  for  ever  :  a  Hand  like 

this  hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee  !    See  the 

Christ  stand  ! 


ROBERT  BROWNING  179 


From  ''Raster  Day ' 

HE  stood  there.    Like  the  smoke 
Pillared  o'er  Sodom,  when  day  broke, — 
I  saw  Him.    One  magnific  pall 
Mantled  in  massive  fold  and  fall 
His  dread,  and  coiled  in  snaky  swathes 
About  His  feet  :  night's  black,  that  bathes 
All  else,  broke,  grizzled  with  despair, 
Against  the  soul  of  blackness  there. 
A  gesture  told  the  mood  within — 
That  wrapped  right  hand  which  based  the  chin. 
That  intense  meditation  fixed 
On  His  procedure, — pity  mixed 
With  the  fulfilment  of  decree. 
Motionless,  thus,  He  spoke  to  me, 
Who  fell  before  His  feet,  a  mass, 
No  man  now. 

*  All  is  come  to  pass. 
Such  shows  are  over  for  each  soul 
They  had  respect  to.    In  the  roll 
Of  Judgement  which  convinced  mankind 
Of  sin,  stood  many,  bold  and  blind, 
Terror  must  burn  the  truth  into  : 
Their  fate  for  them  ! — thou  hadst  to  do 
With  absolute  omnipotence, 
Able  its  judgements  to  dispense 
To  the  whole  race,  as  every  one 
Were  its  sole  object.    Judgement  done, 
God  is,  thou  art, — the  rest  is  hurled 
To  nothingness  for  thee.    This  world, 


i8o 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


This  finite  life,  them  hast  preferred, 

In  disbelief  of  God's  own  word, 

To  Heaven  and  to  Infinity. 

Here  the  probation  was  for  thee, 

To  show  thy  soul  the  earthly  mixed 

With  heavenly,  it  must  choose  betwixt. 

The  earthly  joys  lay  palpable, — 

A  taint,  in  each,  distinct  as  well ; 

The  heavenly  flitted,  faint  and  rare, 

Above  them,  but  as  truly  were 

Taintless,  so,  in  their  nature,  best. 

Thy  choice  was  earth  :   thou  didst  attest 

'Twas  fitter  spirit  should  subserve 

The  flesh,  than  flesh  refine  to  nerve 

Beneath  the  spirit's  play.    Advance 

No  claim  to  their  inheritance 

Who  chose  the  spirit's  fugitive 

Brief  gleams,  and  yearned,  "  This  were  to  live 

Indeed,  if  rays,  completely  pure 

From  flesh  that  dulls  them,  could  endure, — 

Not  shoot  in  meteor-light  athwart 

Our  earth,  to  show  how  cold  and  swart 

It  lies  beneath  their  fire,  but  stand 

As  stars  do,  destined  to  expand, 

Prove  veritable  worlds,  our  home." 

Thou  saidst, — "  Let  spirit  star  the  dome 

Of  sky,  that  flesh  may  miss  no  peak, 

No  nook  of  earth, — I  shall  not  seek 

Its  service  further  !  "    Thou  art  shut 

Out  of  the  heaven  of  spirit ;  glut 

Thy  sense  upon  the  world :    'tis  thine 

For  ever — take  it ! ' 


ROBERT  BROWNING  181 

*  How  ?    Is  mine, 

The  world  ?  '    (I  cried,  while  my  soul  broke 
Out  in  a  transport.)     '  Hast  Thou  spoke 
Plainly  in  that  ?     Earth's  exquisite 
Treasures  of  wonder  and  delight, 
For  me  ? ' 

The  austere  voice  returned, — 
'  So  soon  made  happy  ?    Hadst  thou  learned 
What  God  accounteth  happiness, 
Thou  wouldst  not  find  it  hard  to  guess 
What  hell  may  be  His  punishment 
For  those  who  'doubt  if  God  invent 
Better  than  they.    Let  such  men  rest 
Content  with  what  they  judged  the  best. 
Let  the  unjust  usurp  at  will : 
The  filthy  shall  be  filthy  still : 
Miser,  there  waits  the  gold  for  thee  ! 
Hater,  indulge  thine  enmity  ! 
And  thou,  whose  heaven  self-ordained 
Was,  to  enjoy  earth  unrestrained, 
Do  it !    Take  all  the  ancient  show  ! 
The  woods  shall  wave,  the  rivers  flow, 
And  men  apparently  pursue 
Their  works,  as  they  were  wont  to  do, 
While  living  in  probation  yet. 
I  promise  not  thou  shalt  forget 
The  Past,  now  gone  to  its  account ; 
But  leave  thee  with  the  old  amount 
Of  faculties,  nor  less  nor  more, 
Unvisited,  as  heretofore, 
By  God's  free  spirit,  that  makes  an  end. 
So,  once  more,  take  thy  world  !   expend 
Eternity  upon  its  shows, — 
Flung  thee  as  freely  as  one  rose 


1 82  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Out  of  a  summer's  opulence, 

Over  the  Eden-barrier  whence 

Thou  art  excluded.    Knock  in  vain  ! ' 

I  sat  up.    All  was  still  again. 

I  breathed  free  :  to  my  heart,  back  fled 

The  warmth.    '  But,  all  the  world  ! ' — I  said. 

I  stooped  and  picked  a  leaf  of  fern, 

And  recollected  I  might  learn 

From  books,  how  many  myriad  sorts 

Of  fern  exist,  to  trust  reports, 

Each  as  distinct  and  beautiful 

As  this,  the  very  first  I  cull. 

Think,  from  the  first  leaf  to  the  last ! 

Conceive,  then,  earth's  resources !     Vast 

Exhaustless  beauty,  endless  change 

Of  wonder  !    And  this  foot  shall  range 

Alps,  Andes, — and  this  eye  devour 

The  bee-bird  and  the  aloe-flower  ? 


Then  the  Voice,  '  Welcome  so  to  rate 

The  arras-folds  that  variegate 

The  earth,  God's  antechamber,  well ! 

The  wise,  who  waited *there,  could  tell 

By  these,  what  royalties  in  store 

Lay  one  step  past  the  entrance-door. 

For  whom,  was  reckoned,  not  too  much, 

This  life's  munificence  ?     For  such 

As  thou, — a  race,  whereof  scarce  one 

Was  able,  in  a  million, 

To  feel  that  any  marvel  lay 

In  objects  round  his  feet  all  day  ; 

Scarce  one,  in  many  millions  more, 

Willing,  if  able,  to  explore 


ROBERT  BROWNING  183 

The  secreter,  minuter  charm  ! 

— Brave  souls,  a  fern-leaf  could  disarm 

Of  power  to  cope  with  God's  intent, — 

Or  scared  if  the  south  firmament 

With  north-fire  did  its  wings  refledge  ! 

All  partial  beauty  was  a  pledge 

Of  beauty  in  its  plenitude  : 

But  since  the  pledge  sufficed  thy  mood, 

Retain  it !   plenitude  be  theirs 

Who  looked  above  !  ; 

Though  sharp  despairs 
Shot  through  me,  I  held  up,  bore  on. 
'  What  matter  though  my  trust  were  gone 
From  natural  things  ?    Henceforth  my  part 
Be  less  with  Nature  than  with  Art ! 
For  Art  supplants,  gives  mainly  worth 
To  Nature  ;   'tis  Man  stamps  the  earth — 
And  I  will  seek  his  impress,  seek 
The  statuary  of  the  Greek, 
Italy's  painting — there  my  choice 
Shall  fix  !  ' 

'  Obtain  it !  '   said  the  voice, 
— '  The  one  form  with  its  single  act, 
Which  sculptors  laboured  to  abstract, 
The  one  face,  painters  tried  to  draw, 
With  its  one  look,  from  throngs  they  saw  .  .  . 

.  .  .  '  But  through 

Life  pierce, — and  what  has  earth  to  do, 
Its  utmost  beauty's  appanage, 
With  the  requirement  of  next  stage  ? 
Did  God  pronounce  earth  "  very  good  "  ? 
Needs  must  it  be,  while  understood 
For  man's  preparatory  state  ; 


1 84  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Nothing  to  heighten  nor  abate : 

Transfer  the  same  completeness  here, 

To  serve  a  new  state's  use — and  drear 

Deficiency  gapes  every  side  ! 

The  good,  tried  once,  were  bad,  retried. 

See  the  enwrapping  rocky  niche, 

Sufficient  for  the  sleep,  in  which 

The  lizard  breathes  for  ages  safe  : 

Split  the  mould — and  as  this  would  chafe 

The  creature's  new  world-widened  sense, 

One  minute  after  day  dispense 

The  thousand  sounds  and  sights  that  broke 

In  on  him  at  the  chisel's  stroke, — 

So,  in  God's  eye,  the  earth's  first  stuff 

Was,  neither  more  nor  less,  enough 

To  house  man's  soul,  man's  need  fulfil. 

Man  reckoned  it  immeasurable  ? 

So  thinks  the  lizard  of  his  vault ! 

Could  God  be  taken  in  default, 

Short  of  contrivances,  by  you — 

Or  reached,  ere  ready  to  pursue 

His  progress  through  eternity  ? 

That  chambered  rock,  the  lizard's  world, 

Your  easy  mallet's  blow  has  hurled 

To  nothingness  for  ever  ;  so, 

Has  God  abolished  at  a  blow 

This  world,  wherein  His  saints  were  pent — 

Who,  though  found  grateful  and  content, 

With  the  provision  there,  as  thou, 

Yet  knew  He  would  not  disallow 

Their  spirit's  hunger,  felt  as  well, — 

Unsated, — not  unsalable,    . 

As  Paradise  gives  proof.    Deride 

Their  choice  now,  thou  who  sit'st  outside  ! 


ROBERT  BROWNING  185 

I  cried  in  anguish,  '  Mind,  the  mind, 

So  miserably  cast  behind, 

To  gain  what  had  been  wisely  lost ! 

Oh,  let  me  strive  to  make  the  most 

Of  the  poor  stinted  soul,  I  nipped 

Of  budding  wings,  else  now  equipt 

For  voyage  from  summer  isle  to  isle  ! 

And  though  she  needs  must  reconcile 

Ambition  to  the  life  on  ground, 

Still,  I  can  profit  by  late  found 

But  precious  knowledge.    Mind  is  best — 

I  will  seize  mind,  forgo  the  rest, 

And  try  how  far  my  tethered  strength 

May  crawl  in  this  poor  breadth  and  length. 

Let  me,  since  I  can  fly  no  more, 

At  least  spin  dervish-like  about 

(Till  giddy  rapture  almost  doubt 

I  fly)  through  circling  sciences, 

Philosophies  and  histories ! 

Should  the  whirl  slacken  there,  then  verse, 

Fining  to  music,  shall  asperse 

Fresh  and  fresh  fire-dew,  till  I  strain 

Intoxicate,  half-break  my  chain  ! 

Not  joyless,  though  more  favoured  feet 

Stand  calm,  where  I  want  wings  to  beat 

The  floor.    At  least  earth's  bond  is  broke  !  ' 

Then  (sickening  even  while  I  spoke), 
'  Let  me  alone  !    No  answer,  pray, 
To  this !    I  know  what  Thou  wilt  say  ! 
All  still  is  earth's — to  know,  as  much 
As  feel  its  truths,  which  if  we  touch 
With  sense,  or  apprehend  in  soul, 
What  matter  ?    I  have  reached  the  goal — 


1 86 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


"  Whereto  does  Knowledge  serve  !  "   will  burn 

My  eyes,  too  sure,  at  every  turn  ! 

I  cannot  look  back  now,  nor  stake 

Bliss  on  the  race,  for  running's  sake. 

The  goal 's  a  ruin  like  the  rest ! ' 

— '  And  so  much  worse  thy  latter  quest,' 

(Added  the  voice)  '  that  even  on  earth — 

Whenever,  in  man's  soul,  had  birth 

Those  intuitions,  grasps  of  guess, 

That  pull  the  more  into  the  less, 

Making  the  finite  comprehend 

Infinity, — the  bard  would  spend 

Such  praise  alone,  upon  his  craft, 

As,  when  wind-lyres  obey  the  waft, 

Goes  to  the  craftsman  who  arranged 

The  seven  strings,  changed  them  and  rechanged- 

Knowing  it  was  the  South  that  harped. 

He  felt  his  song,  in  singing,  warped  ; 

Distinguished  his  and  God's  part :    whence 

A  world  of  spirit  as  of  sense 

Was  plain  to  him,  yet  not  too  plain, 

Which  he  could  traverse,  not  remain 

A  guest  in  : — else  were  permanent 

Heaven  on  earth  which  its  gleams  were  meant 

To  sting  with  hunger  for  full  light — 

Made  visible  in  verse,  despite 

The  veiling  weakness, — truth  by  means 

Of  fable,  showing  while  it  screens, — 

Since  highest  truth,  man  e'er  supplied, 

Was  ever  fable  on  outside. 

Such  gleams  made  bright  the  earth  an  age  ; 

Now,  the  whole  sun  's  his  heritage  ! 

Take  up  thy  world,  it  is  allowed, 

Thou  who  hast  entered  in  the  cloud  !  ' 


ROBERT  BROWNING  187 

Then  I — *  Behold,  my  spirit  bleeds, 

Catches  no  more  at  broken  reeds, — 

But  lilies  flower  those  reeds  above  : 

I  let  the  world  go,  and  take  love  ! 

Love  survives  in  me,  albeit  those 

I  love  be  henceforth  masks  and  shows, 

Not  loving  men  and  women  :   still 

I  mind  how  love  repaired  all  ill, 

Cured  wrong,  soothed  grief,  made  earth  amends 

With  parents,  brothers,  children,  friends ! 

Some  semblance  of  a  woman  yet 

With  eyes  to  help  me  to  forget, 

Shall  live  with  me  ;   and  I  will  match 

Departed  love  with  love,  attach 

Its  fragments  to  my  whole,  nor  scorn 

The  poorest  of  the  grains  of  corn 

I  save  from  shipwreck  on  this  isle, 

Trusting  its  barrenness  may  smile 

With  happy  foodful  green  one  day, 

More  precious  for  the  pains.    I  pray, 

For  love,  then,  only  ! ' 

At  the  word, 

The  form,  I  looked  to  have  been  stirred 
With  pity  and  approval,  rose 
O'er  me,  as  when  the  headsman  throws 
Axe  over  shoulder  to  make  end — 
I  fell  prone,  letting  Him  expend 
His  wrath,  while,  thus,  the  inflicting  voice 
Smote  me.    '  Is  this  thy  final  choice  ? 
Love  is  the  best  ?    'Tis  somewhat  late  ! 
And  all  thou  dost  enumerate 
Of  power  and  beauty  in  the  world, 
The  mightiness  of  love  was  curled 


1 88  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Inextricably  round  about. 

Love  lay  within  it  and  without, 

To  clasp  thee — but  in  vain  !    Thy  soul 

Still  shrunk  from  Him  who  made  the  whole, 

Still  set  deliberate  aside 

His  love  ! — Now  take  love  !    Well  betide 

Thy  tardy  conscience  !    Haste  to  take 

The  show  of  love  for  the  name's  sake, 

Remembering  every  moment  Who, 

Beside  creating  thee  unto 

These  ends,  and  these  for  thee,  was  said 

To  undergo  death  in  thy  stead 

In  flesh  like  thine  :  so  ran  the  tale. 

What  doubt  in  thee  could  countervail 

Belief  in  it  ?    Upon  the  ground 

"  That  in  the  story  had  been  found 

Too  much  love  !    How  could  God  love  so  ?  " 

He  who  in  all  His  works  below 

Adapted  to  the  needs  of  man, 

Made  love  the  basis  of  the  plan, — 

Did  love,  as  was  demonstrated  : 

While  man,  who  was  so  fit  instead 

To  hate,  as  every  day  gave  proof — 

Man  thought  man,  for  his  kind's  behoof, 

Both  could  and  did  invent  that  scheme 

Of  perfect  love — 'twould  well  beseem 

Cain's  nature  thou  wast  wont  to  praise, 

Not  tally  with  God's  usual  ways  !  ' 

And  I  cowered  deprecatingly — 
'  Thou  Love  of  God  !    Or  let  me  die, 
Or  grant  what  shall  seem  Heaven  almost ! 
Let  me  not  know  that  all  is  lost, 
Though  lost  it  be — leave  me  not  tied 


ROBERT  BROWNING  189 

To  this  despair,  this  corpse-like  bride  ! 

Let  that  old  life  seem  mine — no  more — 

With  limitation  as  before, 

With  darkness,  hunger,  toil,  distress : 

Be  all  the  earth  a  wilderness ! 

Only  let  me  go  on,  go  on, 

Still  hoping  ever  and  anon 

To  reach  one  eve  the  Better  Land  !  ' 

Then  did  the  form  expand,  expand — 
I  knew  Him  through  the  dread  disguise, 
As  the  whole  God  within  his  eyes 
Embraced  me. 


(After  he  has  been  extemporizing  upon  the  musical  instru 
ment  of  his  invention) 

WOULD   that   the  structure   brave,  the   manifold 
music  I  build, 

Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to  their  work, 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as  when 

Solomon  willed 
Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons  that 

lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly, — alien  of  end  and  of  aim, 

Adverse,  each  from  the  other  heaven-high,  hell-deep 

removed, — 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the  ineffable 

Name,. 

And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure  the  princess 
he  loved  ! 


190  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  building  of 

mine, 
This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and  importuned 

to  raise  ! 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dispart  now  and 

now  combine, 
Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their  master  his 

praise  ! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge  down 

to  hell, 

Burrow  awhile  and  build,  broad  on  the  roots  of  things, 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me  my 

palace  well, 
Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the  nether  springs. 

And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like  the  excellent 

minion  he  was, 
Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd  but  with  many 

a  crest, 
Raising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  transparent  as  glass, 

Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place  to  the  rest  : 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips  with  fire, 
When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  festal  night  — 
Outlining  round  and  round  Rome's  dome  from  space  to 


^ 

Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the  pride  of  my 
soul  was  in  sight. 

In  sight?     Not  half  !    for  it  seemed,  it  was  certain,  to 

match  man's  birth, 

Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an  impulse  as  I  ; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down,  made  effort  to 

reach  the  earth, 

As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  passion,  to  scale 
the  sky  : 


ROBERT  BROWNING  191 

Novel  splendours  brfrst  forth,  grew  familiar  and  dwelt 

with  mine, 
Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found  and  fixed  its  wandering 

star  ; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze  :    and  they  did  not  pale 

nor  pine, 

For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was  no  more 
near  nor  far. 

Nay  more  ;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked  in  the  glare 

and  glow, 

Presences  plain  in  the  place  ;  or,  fresh  from  the  Proto 
plast, 
Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier  wind  should 

blow, 
Lured  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house  to  their  liking 

at  last  ; 
Or  else  the  wonderful  Dead  who  have  passed  through  the 

body  and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an  old  world 

worth  their  new : 
What  never  had  been,  was  now  ;  what  was,  as  it  shall  be 

anon ; 

And  what  is, — shall  I  say,  matched  both?  for  I  was 
made  perfect  too. 

All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to  a  wish  of 

my  soul, 
All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish  flowed 

visibly  forth, 
All  through  music  and  me  !     For  think,  had  I  painted 

the  whole, 

Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the  process  so 
wonder-worth  : 


192  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse — still,  effect  proceeds 

from  cause, 
Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the  tale  is 

told  ; 

It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to  laws, 
Painter  and  poet  are  proud  in  the  artist-list  enrolled  : — 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can. 
Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them  and,  lo,  they 

are! 
And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to 

man, 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound, 

but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well :    each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is 

nought ; 

It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said : 
Give  it  to  me  to  use  !    I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought  : 
And,  there  !    Ye  have  heard  and  seen  :    consider  and 
bow  the  head  ! 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music  I  reared  ; 
Gone  !   and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises  that  come 

too  slow ; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can  say  that  he 

feared, 
That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone  thing  was 

to  go. 
Never  to  be  again  I    But  many  more  of  the  kind 

As  good,  nay,  better  perchance  :   is  this  your  comfort 

to  me  ? 

To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling  with  my  mind 
To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same  God  :    ay, 
what  was,  shall  be. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  193 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  Thee,  the  ineffable  • 

Name  ? 
Builder  and  maker,  Thou,  of  houses  not  made  with 

hands ! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  Thee  who  art  ever  the 

same  ? 
Doubt  that  Thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that  Thy 

power  expands  ? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good  !     WJiat  was,  shall 

live  as  before  ; 

The  evil  is  null,  is  nought,  is  silence  implying  sound  ; 
What  was  good,  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much 

good  more  ; 

On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs ;  in  the  heaven,  a  perfect 
round. 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good,  shall    « 

exist ; 
Not  its  semblance,  but  itself ;    no  beauty,  nor  good, 

nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the 

melodist 

When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too 

hard, 
The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the 

sky, 

Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard  ; 
Enough  that  He  heard  it  once  :    we  shall  hear  it  by 
and  by. 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 
For  the  fullness  of  the  days  ?     Have  we  withered  or 
agonized  ? 

MYST.  H 


194  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might 

issue  thence  ? 
Why  rushed  the  discords  in,  but  that  harmony  should 

be  prized  ? 

Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear, 
Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal  and 

woe  : 
But  God  has   a  few  of  us  whom  He  whispers  in  the 

ear  ; 

The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome  :    'tis  we  musicians 
know. 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me  ;   silence  resumes  her  reign  : 
I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  acquiesce. 
Give    me    the    keys.      I    feel   for    the    common    chord 

again, 

Sliding  by  semitones,  till  I  sink  to  the  minor, — yes, 
And   I   blunt  it   into   a   ninth,   and   I   stand   on  alien 

ground, 
Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled  from  into  the 

deep  ; 
Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place 

is  found, 
The  C  Major  of  this  life  :   so,  now  I  will  try  to  sleep. 


Rabbi.   Ben  Ezra 

GROW  old  along  with  me  ! 
The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made  : 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith  '  A  whole  I  planned, 
Youth  shows  but  half ;  trust  God :  see  all,  nor  be  afraid  ! ' 


ROBERT  BROWNING  195 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed  '  Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall  ?  ' 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned  *  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars ; 

Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends 
them  all ! » 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 

Do  I  remonstrate  :   folly  wide  the  mark  ! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 

Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast : 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men  ; 

Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?     Frets  doubt  the  maw- 
crammed  beast? 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 

To  That  which  doth  provide 

And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive  ! 

A  spark  disturbs  our  clod  ; 

Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe. 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go  ! 

Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain  ! 

Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain  ; 

Learn,  nor  account  the  pang ;  dare,  never  grudge  the  throe ! 


196 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


For  thence, — a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 

Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail : 

What  I  aspired  to  be, 

And  was  not,  comforts  me  : 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit, 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play  ? 

To  man,  propose  this  test — 

Thy  body  at  its  best, 

How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way  ? 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use  : 
I  own  the  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn  : 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole  ; 

Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  f  How  good  to  live  and 
learn  ?  ' 

Not  once  beat  '  Praise  be  Thine  ! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  Power,  see  now  Love  perfect  too  : 

Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan  : 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man  ! 

Maker,  remake,  complete, — I  trust  what  Thou  shalt  do  !  ' 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh  ; 

Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 

Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest : 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 

To  match  those  manifold 

Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as  we  did  best ! 


ROBERT  BROWNING  197 

Let  us  not  always  say 
'  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole  ! ' 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry  '  All  good  things 

Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps 
soul !  ' 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term  : 

Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 

A  man,  for  ay  removed 

From  the  developed  brute  ;   a  God  though  in  the  germ. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new : 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 

When  I  wage  battle  next, 

What  weapons  to  select,  what  armour  to  indue. 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby  ; 

Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold  : 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 

Give  life  its  praise  or  blame  : 

Young,  all  lay  in  dispute  ;   I  shall  know,  being  old. 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  grey  : 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots — c  Add  this  to  the  rest, 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth  :    here  dies  another  day.' 


198 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


So,  still  within  this  life, 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 

1  This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 

That  acquiescence  vain  : 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past.' 

For  more  is  not  reserved 

To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 

To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day  : 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 

The  Master  work,  and  catch 

Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made ; 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 

From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 

Further.    Thou  waitedst  age  ;  wait  death  nor  be  afraid  ! 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 

Subject  to  no  dispute 

From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone. 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 

Severed  great  minds  from  small, 

Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past ! 

Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 

Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 

Right  ?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace  at  last ! 


ROBERT  BROWNING  199 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate  ? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive  ; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me  :  we  all  surmise, 

They,  this  thing,  and  I,  that :  whom  shall  my  soul  believe  ? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  '  work  ',  must  sentence  pass, 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price  ; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 

The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 

Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice  : 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 
All  instincts  immature, 
All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's 
amount : 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped  ; 

All  I  could  never  be, 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 
That  metaphor  !  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay, — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 

*  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change ;    the  Past  gone,  seize 
to-day  ! ' 


200  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Fool !    All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure  : 

What  entered  into  thee, 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be  : 

Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops  :  Potter  and  clay  endure. 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest : 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 

Aroiind  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press  ? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim, 

Skull-things  in  order  grim 

Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress  ? 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up  ! 
To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 
The  Master's  lips  aglow  ! 

Thou",   heaven's   consummate   cup,   what   need'st   thou 
with  earth's  wheel  ? 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men  ; 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 

Did  I, — to  the  wheel  of  life 

With  shapes  and  colours  rife, 

Bound  dizzily, — mistake  my  end,  to  slake  Thy  thirst : 


ROBERT  BROWNING  201 

So,  take  and  use  Thy  work  ! 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o*  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim  ! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand  ! 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same  ! 


WILLIAM  BELL  SCOTT 

1812-1890 
Pebbles  in  the  Stream 

HERE  on  this  little  bridge  in  this  warm  day 
We  rest  us  from  our  idle  sauntering  walk. 
Over  our  shadows  its  continuous  talk 
The  stream  maintains,  while  now  and  then  a  stray 
Dry  leaf  may  fall  where  the  still  waters  play 

In  endless  eddies,  through  whose  clear  brown  deep 
The  gorgeous  pebbles  quiver  in  their  sleep. 
The  stream  still  hastes  but  cannot  pass  away. 

Could  I  but  find  the  words  that  would  reveal 

The  unity  in  multiplicity, 
And  the  profound  strange  harmony  I  feel 

With  those  dead  things,  God's  garments  of  to-day, 
The  listener's  soul  with  mine  they  would  anneal, 

And  make  us  one  within  eternity. 


From  '  The  Tear  of  the  If'orld' 

GIVE  reverence,  O  man,  to  mystery, 
Keep  your  soul  patient,  and  with  closed  eye  hear. 
Know  that  the  Good  is  in  all  things,  the  whole 
Being  by  him  pervaded  and  upheld. 
H3 


202  WILLIAM  BELL  SCOTT 

He  is  the  will,  the  thwarting  circumstance, 

The  two  opposing  forces  equal  both — 

Birth,  Death,  are  one.    Think  not  the  Lotus  flower 

Or  tulip  is  more  honoured  than  the  grass, 

The  bindweed,  or  the  thistle.    He  who  kneels 

To  Cama,  kneeleth  unto  me  ;  the  maid 

Who  sings  to  Ganga  sings  to  me  ;  I  am 

Wisdom  unto  the  wise,  and  cunning  lore 

Unto  the  subtle.     He  who  knows  his  soul, 

And  from  thence  looketh  unto  mine  ;  who  sees 

All  underneath  the  moon  regardlessly, 

Living  on  silent,  as  a  shaded  lamp 

Burns  with  steady  flame  : — he  sure  shall  find  me — 

He  findeth  wisdom,  greatness,  happiness. 

Know,  further,  the  Great  One  delighteth  not 

In  him  who  works,  and  strives,  and  is  against 

The  nature  of  the  present.     Not  the  less 

Am  I  the  gladness  of  the  conqueror — 

And  the  despair  of  impotence  that  fails. 

I  am  the  ultimate,  the  tendency 

Of  all  things  to  their  nature,  which  is  mine. 

Put  round  thee  garments  of  rich  softness,  hang 

Fine  gold  about  thine  ankles,  hands,  and  ears, 

Set  the  rich  ruby  and  rare  diamond 

Upon  thy  brow. — I  made  them,  I  also 

Made  them  be  sought  by  thee ;   thou  lack'st  them  not  ? 

Then  throw  them  whence  they  came,  and  leave  with  them 

The  wish  to  be  aught  else  than  nature  forms. 

Know  that  the  great  Good  in  the  age  called  First, 
Beheld  a  world  of  mortals,  'mong  whom  none 
Enquired  for  Truth,  because  no  falsehood  was  : 
Nature  was  Truth  ;  man  held  whate'er  he  wished  : 


WILLIAM  BELL  SCOTT  203 

No  will  was  thwarted,  and  no  deed  was  termed, 
Good,  Evil.     In  much  wisdom  is  much  grief. 
He  who  increases  knowledge  sorrow  also 
Takes  with  it,  till  he  rises  unto  me, 
Knowing  that  I  am  in  all,  still  the  same  : 
Knowing  that  I  am  Peace  in  the  contented. 
I,  Great,  revealed  unto  the  Seer,  how  man 
Had  wandered,  and  he  gave  a  name  and  form 
To  my  communings  and  he  called  it  Veda. 
To  him  who  understands  it  is  great  gain — 
Who  understandeth  not,  to  him  the  Sign 
And  ritual  is  authority  and  guide, 
A  living  and  expiring  confidence. 

CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

1813-1892 
So  far,  so  near 

THOU,  so  far,  we  grope  to  grasp  thee —    - 
Thou,  so  near,  we  cannot  clasp  thee — 
Thou,  so  wise,  our  prayers  grow  heedless — 
Thou,  so  loving,  they  are  needless  ! 
In  each  human  soul  thou  shinest, 
Human-best  is  thy  divinest. 
In  each  deed  of  love  thou  warmest ;  » 

Evil  into  good  transformest. 
Soul  of  all,  and  moving  centre 
Of  each  moment's  life  we  enter. 
Breath  of  breathing — light  of  gladness — 
Infinite  antidote  of  sadness ; — 
All-preserving  ether  flowing 
Through  the  worlds,  yet  past  our  knowing. 
Never  past  our  trust  and  loving, 
Nor  from  thine  our  life  removing. 


204         CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Still  creating,  still  inspiring, 
Never  of  thy  creatures  tiring  ; 
Artist  of  thy  solar  spaces ; 
And  thy  humble  human  faces ; 
Mighty  glooms  and  splendours  voicing  ; 
In  thy  plastic  work  rejoicing  ; 
Through  benignant  law  connecting 
Best  with  best — and  all  perfecting, 
Though  all  human  races  claim  thee, 
Thought  and  language  fail  to  name  thee, 
Mortal  lips  be  dumb  before  thee, 
Silence  only  may  adore  thee  ! 


From  '  Ormuzd  and  Ahriman ' 

Satan  speaks 
HPHERE  were  no  shadows  till  the  worlds  were  made  ; 

J.  No  evil  and  no  sin  till  finite  souls, 
Imperfect  thence,  conditioned  in  free-will, 
Took  form,  projected  by  eternal  law 
Through  co-existent  realms  of  time  and  space. 
Naught  evil,  though  it  were  the  Prince  of  evil, 
Hath  being  in  itself.     For  God  alone 
Existeth  in  Himself,  and  Good,  which  lives 
As  sunshine  lives,  born  of  the  Parent  Sun. 
I  am  the  finite  shadow  of  that  Sun, 
Opposite,  not  opposing,  only  seen 
Upon  the  nether  side. 
No  personal  will  am  I,  no  influence  bad 
Or  good.     I  symbolize  the  wild  and  deep 
And  unregenerated  wastes  of  life, 
Dark  with  transmitted  tendencies  of  race 
And  blind  mischance  ;  all  crude  mistakes  of  will — 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH         205 

Proclivity  unbalanced  by  due  weight 

Of  favouring  circumstance  ;  all  passion  blown 

By  wandering  winds  ;  all  surplusage  of  force 

Piled  up  for  use,  but  slipping  from  its  base 

Of  law  and  order  ;  all  undisciplined 

And  ignorant  mutiny  against  the  wise 

Restraint  of  rules  by  centuries  old  endorsed, 

And  proved  the  best  so  long  it  needs  no  proof ; — 

All  quality  o'erstrained  until  it  cracks  : — 

Yet  but  a  surface  crack ;  the  Eternal  Eye 

Sees  underneath  the  soul's  sphere,  as  above, 

And  knows  the  deep  foundations  of  the  world 

Will  not  be  jarred  or  loosened  by  the  stress 

Of  sun  and  wind  and  rain  upon  the  crust 

Of  upper  soil.     Nay,  let  the  earthquake  split 

The  mountains  into  steep  and  splintered  chasms — 

Down  deeper  than  the  shock  the  adamant 

Of  ages  stands,  symbol  no  less  divine 

Of  the  eternal  Law  than  heaven  above. 

FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FABER 

1814-1863 
From  '  The  Eternal  Word* 


A1ID  the  eternal  silences 
God's  endless  Word  was  spoken  ; 
None  heard  but  He  who  always  spake, 
And  the  silence  was  unbroken. 
Oh  marvellous  !   Oh  worshipful ! 
No  song  or  sound  is  heard,  * 
But  everywhere  and  every  hour, 
In  love,  in  wisdom,  and  in  power, 
The  Father  speaks  His  dear  Eternal  Word 


206  FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FABER 


For  ever  in  the  eternal  land 

The  glorious  Day  is  dawning  ; 
For  ever  is  the  Father's  Light 

Like  an  endless  outspread  morning. 
Oh  marvellous  !    Oh  worshipful ! 

No  song  or  sound  is  heard, 
But  everywhere  and  every  hour, 
In  love,  in  wisdom,  and  in  power, 
The  Father  speaks  His  dear  Eternal  Word 


in 
From  the  Father's  vast  tranquillity, 

In  light  co-equal  glowing 
The  kingly  con  substantial  Word 
Is  unutterably  flowing. 

Oh  marvellous !  Oh  worshipful ! 

No  song  or  sound  is  heard, 
But  everywhere  and  every  hour, 
In  love,  in  wisdom,  and  in  power, 
The  Father  speaks  His  dear  Eternal  Word  ! 


IV 

For  ever  climbs  that  Morning  Star 

Without  ascent  or  motion  ; 
For  ever  is  its  daybreak  shed 

On  the  Spirit's  boundless  ocean. 
Oh  marvellous !  Oh  worshipful ! 

No  song  or  sound  is  heard, 
But  everywhere  and  every  hour, 
In  love,  in  wisdom,  and  in  power, 
The  Father  speaks  His  dear  Eternal  Word  J 


207 

EDWARD  CASWALL 

1814-1878 

The  Order  of  Pure  Intuition 

HAIL,  sacred  Order  of  eternal  Truth  J 
That  deep  within  the  soul, 
In  axiomatic  majesty  sublime, 
One  undivided  whole, — 

Up  from  the  underdepth  unsearchable 

Of  primal  Being  springs, 
An  inner  world  of  thought,  co-ordinate 

With  that  of  outward  things  ! 

Hail,  Intuition  pure  !  whose  essences 

The  central  core  supply 
Of  conscience,  language,  science,  certitude, 

Art,  beauty,  harmony ! 

Great  God  !    I  thank  Thy  majesty  supreme, 

Whose  all-creative  grace 
Not  in  the  sentient  faculties  alone 

Has  laid  my  reason's  base  ; 

Not  in  abstractions  thin  by  slow  degrees 

From  grosser  forms  refin'd  ; 
Not  in  tradition,  nor  the  broad  consent 

Of  conscious  humankind  ; — 

But  in  th'  essential  Presence  of  Thyself, 

Within  the  soul's  abyss  ; 
Thyself,  alike  of  her  intelligence 

The  fount,  as  of  her  bliss ; 

Thyself,  by  nurture,  meditation,  grace, 

Reflexively  reveal'd  ; 
Yet  ever  acting  on  the  springs  of  thought, 

E'en  when  from  thought  conceal'd  ! 


208 


AUBREY  THOMAS  DE  VERE 
Implicit  Faith 

OF  all  great  Nature's  tones  that  sweep 
Earth's  resonant  bosom,  far  or  near, 
Low-breathed  or  loudest,  shrill  or  deep, 
How  few  are  grasped  by  mortal  ear. 

Ten  octaves  close  our  scale  of  sound  : 
Its  myriad  grades,  distinct  or  twined, 

Transcend  our  hearing's  petty  bound, 
To  us  as  colours  to  the  blind. 

In  Sound's  unmeasured  empire  thus 
The  heights,  the  depths  alike  we  miss  ; 

Ah,  but  in  measured  sound  to  us 
A  compensating  spell  there  is  ! 

In  holy  music's  golden  speech 
Remotest  notes  to  notes  respond  : 

Each  octave  is  a  world  ;  yet  each 
Vibrates  to  worlds  its  own  beyond. 

Our  narrow  pale  the  vast  resumes ; 

Our  sea-shell  whispers  of  the  sea  : 
Echoes  are  ours  of  angel-plumes 

That  winnow  far  infinity  ! 

— Clasp  thou  of  Truth  the  central  core  1 
Hold  fast  that  centre's  central  sense  1 

An  atom  there  shall  fill  thee  more 

Than  realms  on  Truth's  circumference. 

That  cradled  Saviour,  mute  and  small, 
Was  God — is  God  while  worlds  endure  ! 

Who  holds  Truth  truly  holds  it  all 
In  essence,  or  in  miniature. 


1814-1902 


AUBREY  THOMAS  DE  VERE  209 

Know  what  thou  know'st !    He  knoweth  much 

Who  knows  not  many  things  :  and  he 
Knows  most  whose  knowledge  hath  a  touch 

Of  God's  divine  simplicity. 


PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY 

1816-1902 
Knowledge 

THE  knowledge  of  God  is  the  wisdom  of  man — 
This  is  the  end  of  Being,  wisdom  ;   this 
Of  wisdom,  action  ;   and  of  action,  rest ; 
And  of  rest,  bliss ;  that  by  experience  sage 
Of  good  and  ill,  the  diametric  powers 
Which  thwart  the  world,  the  thrice-born  might  discern 
That  death  divine  alone  can  perfect  both, 
The  mediate  and  initiate  ;   that  between 
The  Deity  and  nothing,  nothing  is. 

The  Atlantean  axis  of  the  world 

And  all  the  undescribed  circumference, 

Where  earth's  thick  breath  thins  off  to  blankest  space 

Uniting  with  inanity,  this  truth 

Confess,  the  sun-sire  and  the  death-world  too, 

And  undeflected  spirit  pure  from  Heaven, 

That  He  who  makes,  destroying,  saves  the  whole. 

The  Former  and  Re-Former  of  the  world 

In  wisdom's  holy  spirit  all  renew. 

To  know  this,  is  to  read  the  runes  of  old, 
Wrought  in  the  time-outlasting  rock  ;   to  see 
Unblinded  in  the  heart  of  light ;  to  feel 
Keen  through  the  soul,  the  same  essential  strain, 
Which  vivifies  the  clear  and  fire-eyed  stars, 
Still  harping  their  serene  and  silvery  spell 


210 


PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY 


In  the  perpetual  presence  of  the  skies, 

And  of  the  world-cored  calm,  where  silence  sits 

In  secret  light  all  hidden  ;   this  to  know — 

Brings  down  the  fiery  unction  from  on  high, 

The  spiritual  chrism  of  the  sun, 

Which  hallows  and  ordains  the  regnant  soul — 

Transmutes  the  splendid  fluid  of  the  frame 

Into  a  fountain  of  divine  delight, 

And  renovative  nature  ; — shows  us  earth, 

One  with  the  great  galactic  line  of  life 

Which  parts  the  hemispheral  palm  of  Heaven ; 

This  with  all  spheres  of  Being  makes  concord 

As  at  the  first  creation,  in  that  peace, 

Premotional,  pre-elemental,  prime, 

Which  is  the  hope  of  earth,  the  joy  of  Heaven, 

The  choice  of  the  elect,  the  grace  of  life, 

The  blessing  and  the  glory  of  our  God. 

And — as  the  vesper  hymn  of  time  precedes 

The  starry  matins  of  Eternity, 

And  daybreak  of  existence  in  the  Heavens, — 

To  know  this,  is  to  know  we  shall  depart 

Into  the  storm-surrounding  calm  on  high, 

The  sacred  cirque,  the  all-central  infinite 

Of  that  self-blessedness  wherein  abides 

Our  God,  all-kind,  all-loving,  all-beloved  ; — 

To  feel  life  one  great  ritual,  and  its  laws, 

Writ  in  the  vital  rubric  of  the  blood, 

Flow  in,  obedience,  and  flow  out,  command, 

In  sealike  circulation  ;   and  be  here 

Accepted  as  a  gift  by  Him  who  gives 

An  empire  as  an  alms,  nor  counts  it  aught, 

So  long  as  all  His  creatures  joy  in  Him, 

The  great  Rejoicer  of  the  Universe, 

Whom  all  the  boundless  spheres  of  Being  bless. 


PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY  211 

From  <  The  Mystic  ' 

GOD  was,  alone  in  unity.    He  willed 
The  infinite  creation  ;   and  it  was. 
That  the  creation  might  exist,  His  Son, 
And  that  it  might  return  to  Him,  the  Spirit 
Disclosed  themselves  within  Him  ;  thus  triune 
But  as  the  all-made  must  of  necessity 
Inferior  be  to  its  creator,  thus 
Arose  the  infinite  imperfect,  time, 
The  spirit-host  angelic,  heavenly  race, 
Brute  life  and  vegetive,  electric  light, 
Matter  and  fleshly  form  ;  to  human  souls 
Nine  generations  from  aeternity. 
But  God,  who  is  Love,  decreed  it  should  return 
By  pure  regeneration  unto  God  ; 
Wherefore  was  need  that  He  from  whom  came  life 
Should  taste  death,  but  in  tasting  swallow  up  ; 
That  commune  with  all  creatures  might  be  made, 
On  this  hand,  and  on  that,  with  Deity. 
Thus  death  and  evil  expiate  ends  divine ; 
The  Spirit  the  imperfect  hallowing,  death 
The  Son  ;  the  soul  regenerate  hies  to  God  ; 
And  as  in  radial  union  with  the  point 
Infinite,  both  in  greatness,  place,  and  power. 
Lives  with  the  maker  and  the  all-made  in  love. 

From  'Festus ' 
i 

OD  is  the  sole  and  self-subsistent  one ; 

LFrom  Him,  the  sun-creator,  nature  was  ; 
Aethereal  essences,  all  elements, 
The  souls  therein  indigenous,  and  man 


212 


PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY 


Symbolic  of  all  being.     Out  of  earth 
The  matron  moon  was  moulded,  and  the  sea 
Filled  up  the  shining  chasm  ;   both  now  fulfil 
One  orbit  and  one  nature,  and  all  orbs 
With  them  one  fate,  one  universal  end. 
From  light's  projective  moment,  in  the  earth 
The  moon  was,  even  as  earth  i'  the  sun  ;  the  sun 
A  fiery  incarnation  of  the  heavens. 
When  sun,  earth,  moon  again  make  one,  resumes 
Nature  her  heavenly  state  ;  is  glorified.' 
As,  to  the  sleepless  eye,  form  forth,  at  last, 
The  long  immeasurable  layers  of  light, 
And  beams  of  fire  enormous  in  the  east, 
The  broad  foundations  of  the  heaven-domed  day 
All  fineless  as  the  future,  so  uprose 
On  mine  the  great  celestial  certainty. 
The  mask  of  matter  fell  off,  I  beheld, 
Void  of  all  seeming,  the  sole  substance  mind, 
The  actualized  ideal  of  the  world. 
An  absolutest  essence  filled  my  soul ; 
And  superseding  all  its  modes  and  powers, 
Gave  to  the  spirit  a  consciousness  divine  ; 
A  sense  of  vast  existence  in  the  skies  ; 
Boundless  commune  with  spiritual  light,  and  proof 
Self-shown,  of  heaven  commensurate  with  all  life. 
And  I  to  the  light  of  the  great  spirit's  eyes 
Mine  hungry  eyes  returned  which,  .past  the  first 
Intensifying  blindness,  clearlier  saw 
The  words  she  uttered  of  triumphant  truth. 
For  truly,   and  as  my  vision  heightened,  lo  ! 
The  universal  volume  of  the  heavens, 
Star-lettered  in  celestial  characters, 
Moved  musically  into  words  her  breath  framed 
forth, 


PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY  213 

And  varied  momently ;  and  I  perceived 
That  thus  she  spake  of  God  :   I  silent  still 
And  hearkening  to  the  sea-swell  of  her  voice: 
*  From  one  divine,  all  permanent  unity  comes 
The  many  and  infinite  ;   from  God  all  just 
To  himself  and  others,  who  to  all  is  love, 
Earth  and  the  moon,  like  syllables  of  light, 
Uttered  by  him,  were  with  all  creatures  blessed 
By  him,  and  with  a  sevenfold  blessing  sealed 
To  perfect  rest,  celestial  order  ;  all 
The  double-tabled  book  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Despite  such  due  deficiency  as  cleaves 
Inevitably  to  soul,  till  God  resume, 
Progressive  aye,  possessing  too  all  bliss 
Elect  and  universal  in  the  heavens.' 


And  none  can  truly  worship  but  who  have 
The  earnest  of  their  glory  from  on  high, 
God's  nature  in  them.     It  is  the  love  of  God, 
The  ecstatic  sense  of  oneness  with  all  things, 
And  special  worship  towards  himself  that  thrills 
Through  life's  self-conscious  chord,  vibrant  in  him, 
Harmonious  with  the  universe,  which  makes 
Our  sole  fit  claim  to  being  immortal ;  that 
Wanting  nor  willing,  the  world  cannot  worship. 
And  whether  the  lip  speak,  or  in  inspired 
Silence,  we  clasp  our  hearts  as  a  shut  book 
Of  song  unsung,  the  silence  and  the  speech 
Is  each  his ;  and  as  coming  from  and  going 
To  him,  is  worthy  of  him  and  his  love. 
Prayer  is  the  spirit  speaking  truth  to  truth  ; 
The  expiration  of  the  thing  inspired. 
Above  the  battling  rock-storm  of  this  world 


2i4  PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY 

Lies  heaven's  great  calm,  through  which  as  through  a  bell, 

Tolleth  the  tongue  of  God  eternally, 

Calling  to  worship.     Whoso  hears  that  tongue 

Worships.     The  spirit  enters  with  the  sound. 

Preaching  the  one  and  universal  word, 

The  God-word,  which  is  spirit,  life,  and  light ; 

The  written  word  to  one  race,  the  unwrit 

Revealment  to  the  thousand-peopled  world. 

The  ear  which  hears  is  pre-attuned  in  heaven, 

The  eye  which  sees  prevision  hath  ere  birth. 

But  the  just  future  shall  to  many  give 

Gifts  which  the  partial  present  doles  to  few  ; 

To  all  the  glory  of  obeying  God. 

EMILY  BRONTE 

1819-1848 
The  Visionary 

SILENT  is  the  house  :  all  are  laid  asleep  : 
One  alone  looks  out  o'er  the  snow-wreaths  deep, 
Watching  every  cloud,  dreading  every  breeze 
That  whirls  the  wildering  drift,  and  bends  the  groaning 
jtrees. 

Cheerful  is  the  hearth,  soft  the  matted  floor  ; 

Not  one  shivering  gust  creeps  through  pane  or  door  ; 

The  little  lamp  burns  straight,  its  rays  shoot  strong  and 

far: 
I  trim  it  well,  to  be  the  wanderer's  guiding-star. 

Frown,  my  haughty  sire  !   chide,  my  angry  dame  ! 
Set  your  slaves  to  spy  ;  threaten  me  with  shame  : 
But  neither  sire  nor  dame  nor  prying  serf  shall  know, 
What  angel  nightly  tracks  that  waste  of  frozen  snow. 


EMILY  BRONTE  215 

What  I  love  shall  come  like  visitant  of  air, 
Safe  in  secret  power  from  lurking  human  snare  ; 
What  loves  me,  no  word  of  mine  shall  e'er  betray, 
Though  for  faith  unstained  my  life  must  forfeit  pay. 

Burn,  then,  little  lamp  ;   glimmer  straight  and  clear — 
Hush  !   a  rustling  wing  stirs,  methinks,  the  air  : 
He  for  whom  I  wait,  thus  ever  comes  to  me  ; 
Strange  Power !     I  trust  thy  might ;    trust  thou   my 
constancy. 

Last  Lines 

NO  coward  soul  is  mine, 
No  trembler  in  the  world's  storm-troubled  sphere  : 
I  see  Heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me  from  fear. 

O  God  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity  ! 

Life — that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I — undying  Life — have  power  in  Thee  ! 

Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts  :  unutterably  vain  ; 

Worthless  as  withered  weeds, 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  thine  infinity  ; 

So  surely  anchor'd  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  immortality. 

With  wide-embracing  love 
Thy  Spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,  creates,  and  rears. 


216 


EMILY  BRONTE 


Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  ceased  to  be, 

And  Thou  were  left  alone, 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  render  void  : 

Thou — THOU  art  Being  and  Breath, 
And  what  THOU  art  may  never  be  destroy'd. 

'WALT  WHITMAN1 

1819-1892 
From  the  '  Song  of  the  Open  Road* 


FROM  this  hour  I  ordain  myself  loos'd  of  limits  and 
imaginary  lines, 

Going  where  I  list,  my  own  master,  total  and  absolute, 
Listening  to  others,  and  considering  well  what  they  say, 
Pausing,  searching,  receiving,  contemplating, 
Gently,  but  with  undeniable  will,  divesting  myself  of  the 

holds  that  would  hold  me. 
I  inhale  great  draughts  of  space, 
The  east  and  the  west  are  mine,  and  the  north  and  the 

south  are  mine. 

I  am  larger,  better  than  I  thought, 
I  did  not  know  I  held  so  much  goodness. 
All  seems  beautiful  to  me  ; 
I  can  repeat  over  to  men  and  women,  You  have  done  such 

good  to  me,  I  would  do  the  same  to  you, 
I  will  recruit  for  myself  and  you  as  I  go  ; 
I  will  scatter  myself  among  men  and  women  as  I  go  ; 
I  will  toss  the  new  gladness  and  roughness  among  them  ; 
1  By  permission  of  Messrs.  Appleton  &*  Co.,  New  York. 


WALT  WHITMAN  217 

Whoever  denies  me,  it  shall  not  trouble  me  ; 
Whoever  accepts  me,  he  or  she  shall  be  blessed,  and  shall 
bless  me. 


Here  is  the  efflux  of  the  Soul ; 

The  efflux  of  the  Soul  comes  from  within,  through  em- 

bower'd  gates,  ever  provoking  questions ; 
These  yearnings,  why  are  they  ?    These  thoughts  in  the 

darkness,  why  are  they  ? 
Why  are  there  men  and  women  that  while  they  are  nigh 

me,  the  sunlight  expands  my  blood  ? 
Why,  when  they  leave  me,  do  my  pennants  of  joy  sink 

flat  and  lank  ? 
Why  are  there  trees  I  never  walk  under,  but  large  and 

melodious  thoughts  descend  upon  me  ? 
(I  think  they  hang  there  winter  and  summer  on  those 

trees,  and  always  drop  fruit  as  I  pass ;) 
What  is  it  I  interchange  so  suddenly  with  strangers  ? 
What  with  some  driver,  as  I  ride  on  the  seat  by  his  side  ? 
What  with  some  fisherman,  drawing  his  seine  by  the  shore, 

as  I  walk  by,  and  pause  ? 
What  gives  me  to  be  free  to  a  woman's  or  man's  good-will  ? 

What  gives  them  to  be  free  to  mine  ? 

The  efflux  of  the  Soul  is  happiness — here  is  happiness ; 
I  think  it  pervades  the  open  air,  waiting  at  all  times  ; 
Now  it  flows  unto  us — we  are  rightly  charged. 

Here  rises  the  fluid  and  attaching  character  ; 

The  fluid  and  attaching  character  is  the  freshness  and 
sweetness  of  man  and  woman  ; 

(The  herbs  of  the  morning  sprout  no  fresher  and  sweeter 
every  day  out  of  the  roots  of  themselves,  than  it 
sprouts  fresh  and  sweet  continually  out  of  itself.) 


2i 8  WALT  WHITMAN 

Toward  the  fluid  and  attaching  character  exudes  the 

sweat  of  the  love  of  young  and  old  ; 
From  it  falls  distill'd  the  charm  that  mocks  beauty  and 

attainments ; 
Toward  it  heaves  the  shuddering  longing  ache  of  contact. 

Allons !   whoever  you  are,  come  travel  with  me  ! 
Travelling  with  me,  you  find  what  never  tires. 

The  earth  never  tires  ; 

The  earth  is  rude,  silent,  incomprehensible  at  first — 

Nature  is  rude  and  incomprehensible  at  first ; 
Be  not  discouraged — keep  on — there  are  divine  things, 

well  envelop'd  ; 
I  swear  to  you  there  are  divine  things  more  beautiful 

than  words  can  tell. 

Allons !  we  must  not  stop  here  ! 

However  sweet  these  laid-up  stores — however  convenient 

this  dwelling,  we  cannot  remain  here  ; 
However  shelter'd  this  port,   and  however  calm  these 

waters,  we  must  not  anchor  here  ; 
However  welcome  the  hospitality  that  surrounds  us,  we 

are  permitted  to  receive  it  but  a  little  while. 

in 

All  parts  away  for  the  progress  of  souls ; 

All  religion,  all  solid  things,  arts,  governments — all  that 

was  or  is  apparent  upon  this  globe  or  any  globe,  falls 

into  niches  and  corners  before  the  procession  of  souls 

along  the  grand  roads  of  the  universe. 
Of  the  progress  of  the  souls  of  men  and  women  along  the 

grand  roads  of  the  universe,  all  other  progress  is -the 

needed  emblem  and  sustenance. 


WALT  WHITMAN  219 

From  '  Passage  to  India ' 

OVAST  Rondure,  swimming  in  space, 
Cover'd  all  over  with  visible  power  and  beauty, 

Alternate  light  and  day  and  the  teeming  spiritual  darkness, 

Unspeakable  high  processions  of  sun  and  moon  and  count 
less  stars  above, 

Below,  the  manifold  grass  and  waters,  animals,  mountains, 
trees, 

With  inscrutable  purpose,  some  hidden  prophetic  inten 
tion, 

Now  first  it  seems  my  thought  begins  to  span  thee. 

Down  from  the  gardens  of  Asia  descending  radiating, 
Adam  and  Eve  appear,  then  their  myriad  progeny  after 

them, 

Wandering,  yearning,  curious,  with  restless  explorations, 
With  questionings,  baffled,  formless,  feverish,  with  never- 
happy  hearts, 

With  that  sad  incessant  refrain,  Wherefore  unsatisfied  soul  ? 
and  Whither  O  mocking  life  ? 

Ah,  who  shall  soothe  these  feverish  children  ? 

Who  justify  these  restless  explorations  ? 

Who  speak  the  secret  of  impassive  earth  ? 

Who  bind  it  to  us  ?    what  is  this  separate  Nature  so 

unnatural  ? 
What  is  this  earth  to  our  affections  ?    (unloving  earth, 

without  a  throb  to  answer  ours, 
Cold  earth,  the  place  of  graves.) 

Yet  soul  be  sure  the  first  intent  remains,  and  shall  be 

carried  out, 
Perhaps  even  now  the  time  has  arrived. 


220  WALT  WHITMAN 


After  the  seas  are  all  cross'd,  (as  they  seem  already  cross'd,) 
After  the  great  captains  and  engineers  have  accomplish'd 

their  work, 
After  the  noble  inventors,  after  the  scientists,  the  chemist, 

the  geologist,  ethnologist, 
Finally  shall  come  the  poet  worthy  that  name, 
The  true  son  of  God  shall  come  singing  his  songs. 

Then  not  your  deeds  only  O  voyagers,  O  scientists  and 

inventors,  shall  be  justified  ; 

All  these  hearts  as  of  fretted  children  shall  be  sooth'd, 
All  affection  shall  be  fully  responded  to,  the  secret  shall 

be  told, 
All  these  separations  and  gaps  shall  be  taken  up  and 

hook'd  and  link'd  together, 
The  whole  earth,  this  cold,  impassive,  voiceless  earth, 

shall  be  completely  justified, 
Trinitas    divine    shall    be    gloriously   accomplish'd    and 

compacted  by  the  true  son  of  God,  the  poet, 
(He  shall  indeed  pass  the  straits  and  conquer  the  mountains, 
He  shall  double  the  cape  of  Good  Hope  to  some  purpose,) 
Nature  and  Man  shall  be  disjoin'd  and  diffused  no  more, 
The  true  son  of  God  shall  absolutely  fuse  them.  .  .  . 

Passage  indeed  O  soul  to  primal  thought, 
Not  lands  and  seas  alone,  thy  own  clear  freshness, 
The  young  maturity  of  brood  and  bloom, 
To  realms  of  budding  bibles. 

O  soul,  repressless,  I  with  thee  and  thou  with  me, 

Thy  circumnavigation  of  the  world  begin, 

Of  man,  the  voyage  of  his  mind's  return, 

To  reason's  early  paradise, 

Back,  back  to  wisdom's  birth,  to  innocent  intuitions, 

Again  with  fair  creation. 


WALT  WHITMAN  221 

O  we  can  wait  no  longer, 

We  too  take  ship  O  soul 

Joyous  we  too  launch  out  on  trackless  seas, 

Fearless  for  unknown  shores  on  waves  of  ecstasy  to  sail, 

Amid  the  wafting  winds,  (thou  pressing  me  to  thee,  I  thee 

to  me,  O  soul,) 

Caroling  free,  singing  our  song  of  God, 
Chanting  our  chant  of  pleasant  exploration. 

With  laugh  and  many  a  kiss, 

(Let  others  deprecate,  let  others  weep  for  sin,  remorse, 

humiliation,) 
O  soul  thou  pleasest  me,  I  thee. 

Ah  more  than  any  priest  O  soul  we  too  believe  in  God, 
But  with  the  mystery  of  God  we  dare  not  dally. 

0  soul  thou  pleasest  me,  I  thee, 

Sailing  these  seas  or  on  the  hills,  or  waking  in  the  night,  * 
Thoughts,  silent  thoughts,  of  Time  and  Space  and  Death, 

like  waters  flowing, 

Bear  me  indeed  as  through  the  regions  infinite, 
Whose  air  I  breathe,  whose  ripples  hear,  lave  me  all  over, 
Bathe  me  O  God  in  thee,  mounting  to  thee, 

1  and  my  soul  to  range  in  range  of  thee. 

O  Thou  transcendent, 

Nameless,  the  fibre  and  the  breath, 

Light  of  the  light,  shedding  forth  universes,  thou  centre 

of  them, 

Thou  mightier  centre  of  the  true,  the  good,  the  loving, 
Thou  moral,  spiritual  fountain — affection's  source — thou 

reservoir, 
(O  pensive  soul  of  me — O  thirst  unsatisfied — waitest  not 

there  ? 


222  WALT  WHITMAN 

Waitest  not  haply  for  us  somewhere  there  the  Comrade 

perfect  ?) 

Thou  pulse — thou  motive  of  the  stars,  suns,  systems, 
That,  circling,  move  in  order,  safe,  harmonious, 
Athwart  the  shapeless  vastnesses  of  space, 
How  should  I  think,  how  breathe  a  single  breath,  how 

speak,  if,  out  of  myself, 
I  could  not  launch,  to  those,  superior  universes  ? 

Swiftly  I  shrivel  at  the  thought  of  God, 

At  Nature  and  its  wonders,  Time  and  Space  and  Death, 

But  that  I,  turning,  call  to  thee  O  soul,  thou  actual 

Me, 

And  lo,  thou  gently  masterest  the  orbs, 
Thou  matest  Time,  smilest  content  at  Death, 
And  fillest,  swellest  full  the  vastnesses  of  Space. 

Greater  than  stars  or  suns, 
Bounding  O  soul  thou  journeyest  forth  ; 
What  love  than  thine  and  ours  could  wider  amplify  ? 
What  aspirations,  wishes,  outvie  thine  and  ours  O  soul  ? 
What  dreams  of  the  ideal  ?     what  plans  of  purity,  per 
fection,  strength  ? 

What  cheerful  willingness  for  others'  sake  to  give  up  all  ? 
For  others'  sake  to  suffer  all  ? 

Reckoning  ahead  O  soul,  when  thou,  the  time  achiev'd, 
The  seas   all  cross 'd,  weather 'd   the   capes,  the  voyage 

done, 
Surrounded,    copest,    frontest    God,    yieldest,    the    aim 

attain'd, 
As  fill'd  with  friendship,  love  complete,  the  Elder  Brother 

found, 
The  Younger  melts  in  fondness  in  his  arms. 


WALT  WHITMAN  223 

Passage  to  more  than  India  ! 

Are  thy  wings  plumed  indeed  for  such  far  nights  ? 
O  soul,  voyagest  thou  indeed  on  voyages  like  those  ? 
Disportest  thou  on  waters  such  as  those  ? 
Soundest  below  the  Sanscrit  and  the  Vedas  ? 
Then  have  thy  bent  unleash'd. 

Passage  to  you,  your  shores,  ye  aged  fierce  enigmas  ! 

Passage  to  you,  to  mastership  of  you,  ye  strangling  pro 
blems  ! 

You,  strew'd  with  the  wrecks  of  skeletons,  that,  living, 
never  reach'd  you. 

Passage  to  more  than  India  ! 

O  secret  of  the  earth  and  sky  ! 

Of  you  O  waters  of  the  sea  !    O  winding  creeks  and 

rivers ! 
Of  you  O  woods  and  fields !  of  you  strong  mountains  of 

my  land  ! 

Of  you  O  prairies  !   of  you  gray  rocks  ! 
O  morning  red  !    O  clouds !    O  rain  and  snows  ! 
O  day  and  night,  passage  to  you  ! 

O  sun  and  moon  and  all  you  stars  !    Sirius  and  Jupiter  ! 
Passage  to  you  ! 

Passage,  immediate  passage  !  the  blood  burns  in  my  veins ! 

Away  O  soul !  hoist  instantly  the  anchor  ! 

Cut  the  hawsers — haul  out — shake  out  every  sail ! 

Have  we  not  stood  here  like  trees  in  the  ground  long 

enough  ? 
Have   we   not   grovel'd   here  long  enough,   eating   and 

drinking  like  mere  brutes  ? 
Have  we  not  darken'd  and  dazed  ourselves  with  books 

long  enough  ? 


224  WALT  WHITMAN 

Sail  forth — steer  for  the  deep  waters  only, 
Reckless,  O  soul,  exploring,  I  with  thee,  and  thou  with  me, 
For  we  are  bound  where  mariner  has  not  yet  dared  to  go, 
And  we  will  risk  the  ship,  ourselves  and  all. 

O  my  brave  soul ! 

O  farther  farther  sail ! 

O  daring  joy,  but  safe  !  are  they  not  all  the  seas  of  God  ? 

O  farther,  farther,  farther  sail ! 


Chanting  the  Square  Dei  fa 

CHANTING    the    square    deific,  out    of    the    One 
advancing,  out  of  the  sides, 

Out  of  the  old  and  new,  out  of  the  square  entirely  divine, 
Solid,  four-sided,  (all  the  sides  needed,)  from  this  side 

Jehovah  am  I, 

Old  Brahm  I,  and  I  Saturnius  am  ; 
Not  Time  affects  me — I  am  Time,  old,  modern  as  any, 
Unpersuadable,  relentless,  executing  righteous  judgements, 
As  the  Earth,  the  Father,  the  brown  old  Kronos,  with 

laws, 
Aged  beyond  computation,  yet  ever  new,  ever  with  those 

mighty  laws  rolling, 
Relentless,  I  forgive  no  man — whoever  sins  dies — I  will 

have  that  man's  life  ; 
Therefore   let   none   expect   mercy — have   the   seasons, 

gravitation,  the  appointed  days,  mercy  ?    no  more 

have  I, 
But  as  the  seasons  and  gravitation,  and  as  all  the  appointed 

days  that  forgive  not, 
I  dispense  from  this  side  judgements  inexorable  without 

the  least  remorse. 


WALT  WHITMAN  225 

Consolator  most  mild,  the  promis'd  one  advancing, 
With  gentle  hand  extended,  the  mightier  God  am  I, 
Foretold  by  prophets  and  poets  in  their  most  rapt 

prophecies  and  poems, 
From  this  side,  lo  !   the  Lord  Christ  gazes — lo  !   Hermes 

I — lo  !   mine  is  Hercules'  face, 
All  sorrow,  labour,  suffering,   I,  tallying  it,  absorb  in 

myself, 
Many  times  have  I  been  rejected,  taunted,  put  in  prison, 

and  crucified,  and  many  times  shall  be  again, 
All  the  world  have  I  given  up  for  my  dear  brothers'  and 

sisters'  sake,  for  the  soul's  sake, 
Wending  my  way  through  the  homes  of  men,  rich  or 

poor,  with  the  kiss  of  affection, 
For  I  am  affection,  I  am  the  cheer-bringing  God,  with 

hope  and  all-enclosing  charity, 
With  indulgent  words  as  to  children,  with  fresh  and  sane 

words,  mine  only, 
Young  and  strong  I  pass  knowing  well  I  am   destin'd 

myself  to  an  early  death  ; 
But  my  charity  has  no  death — my  wisdom  dies  not, 

neither  early  nor  late, 
And  my  sweet  love  bequeath'd  here  and  elsewhere  never 

dies. 

Aloof,  dissatisfied,  plotting  revolt, 

Comrade  of  criminals,  brother  of  slaves, 

Crafty,  despised,  a  drudge,  ignorant, 

With  sudra  face  and  worn  brow,  black,  but  in  the  depths 

of  my  heart,  proud  as  any, 
Lifted  now  and  always  against  whoever  scorning  assumes 

to  rule  me, 
Morose,  full  of  guile,  full  of  reminiscences,  brooding, 

with  many  wiles, 
MYST.  i 


226 


WALT  WHITMAN 


(Though  it  was  thought  I  was  baffled  and  dispel'd,  and 
my  wiles  done,  but  that  will  never  be,) 

Defiant,  I,  Satan,  still  live,  still  utter  words,  in  new  lands 
duly  appearing,  (and  old  ones  also,) 

Permanent  here  from  my  side,  warlike,  equal  with  any, 
real  as  any, 

Nor  time  nor  change  shall  ever  change  me  or  my  words. 

Santa  Spirita,  breather,  life, 

Beyond  the  light,  lighter  than  light, 

Beyond  the  flames  of  hell,  joyous,  leaping  easily  above 

hell, 

Beyond  Paradise,  perfumed  solely  with  mine  own  perfume, 
Including  all    life  on  earth,  touching,  including  God, 

including  Saviour  and  Satan, 
Ethereal,  pervading  all  (for  without  me  what  were  all  ? 

what  were  God  ?), 
Essence  of  forms,  life  of  the  real  identities,  permanent, 

positive,  (namely  the  unseen,) 
Life  of  the  great  round  world,  the  sun  and  stars,  and  of 

man,  I,  the  general  soul, 

Here  the  square  finishing,  the  solid,  I  the  most  solid, 
Breathe  my  breath  also  through  these  songs. 


All  is  Truth 

OME,  man  of  slack  faith  so  long, 
Standing  aloof — denying  portions  so  long  ; 
Only  aware  to-day  of  compact,  all-diffused  truth  ; 
Discovering  to-day  there  is  no  lie,  or  form  of  lie,  and  can 
be  none,  but  grows  as  inevitably  upon  itself  as  the 
truth  does  upon  itself, 

Or  as  any  law  of  the  earth,  or  any  natural  production  of 
the  earth  does. 


WALT  WHITMAN  227 

(This  is  curious,  and  may  not  be  realized  immediately — 

But  it  must  be  realized  ; 
I  feel  in  myself  that  I  represent  falsehoods  equally  with 

the  rest, 
And  that  the  universe  does.) 

Where  has  fail'd  a  perfect  return,  indifferent  of  lies  or 

the  truth  ? 
Is  it  upon  the  ground,  or  in  water  or  fire  ?    or  in  the 

spirit  of  man  ?   or  in  the  meat  and  blood  ? 

Meditating    among   liars,    and    retreating    sternly   into 

myself,  I  see  that  there  are  really  no  liars  or  lies  after 

all, 
And  nothing  fails  its  perfect  return — And  that  what  are 

called  lies  are  perfect  returns, 
And  that  each  thing  exactly  represents  itself,  and  what 

has  preceded  it, 
And  that  the  truth  includes  all,  and  is  compact,  just  as 

much  as  space  is  compact, 
And  that  there  is  no  law  or  vacuum  in  the  amount  of  the 

truth — but  that  all  is  truth  without  exception  ; 
And  henceforth  I  will  go  celebrate  anything  I  see  or  am, 
And  sing  and  laugh,  and  deny  nothing. 

Grand  is  the  Seen 

GRAND  is  the  seen,  the  light,  to  me — grand  are  the 
sky  and  stars, 

Grand  is  the  earth,  and  grand  are  lasting  time  and  space, 
And  grand  their  laws,  so  multiform,  puzzling,  evolu 
tionary  ; 

But  grander  far  the  unseen  soul  of  me,  comprehending, 
endowing  all  those, 


228  WALT  WHITMAN 

Lighting  the  light,  the  sky  and  stars,  delving  the  earth, 

sailing  the  sea, 
(What  were  all  those,  indeed,  without  thee,  unseen  soul  ? 

of  what  amount  without  thee  ?) 
More  evolutionary,  vast,  puzzling,  O  my  soul ! 
More  multiform  far — more  lasting  thou  than  they. 

DORA  GREENWELL 

1821-1882 

The  Blade  of  Grass 

'  A  sword  shall  go  through  thine  own  heart.' — Prophecy  ofZacharias 

\   little  blade  of  grass, 
A  little  sword  thou  art, 
That  in  thy  haste  to  pass 

Hast  pierced  thy  mother's  heart ! 

Oh  !  little  blade  of  grass, 

A  little  tongue  thou  art 
Of  cleaving  flame, — alas  ! 

Thou  hast  cleft  thy  mother's  heart. 

Oh  !   little  blade,  upcurled 

Leaf,  sword,  or  fiery  dart, 
To  win  thy  Father's  world 

Thou  must  break  thy  mother's  heart ! 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

1822-1888 

Progress 

THE  Master  stood  upon  the  mount,  and  taught. 
He  saw  a  fire  in  his  disciples'  eyes  ; 
*  The  old  law ',  they  said,  *  is  wholly  come  to  naught ! 
Behold  the  new  world  rise  ! ' 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  229 

*  Was  it ',  the  Lord  then  said,  *  with  scorn  ye  saw 
The  old  law  observed  by  Scribes  and  Pharisees  ? 

I  say  unto  you,  see  ye  keep  that  law 
More  faithfully  than  these  ! 

'  Too  hasty  heads  for  ordering  worlds,  alas ! 
Think  not  that  I  to  annul  the  law  have  will'd  ; 
No  jot,  no  tittle  from  the  law  shall  pass, 
Till  all  hath  been  fulfill'd.' 

So  Christ  said  eighteen  hundred  years  ago. 
And  what  then  shall  be  said  to  those  to-day, 
Who  cry  aloud  to  lay  the  old  world  low 
To  clear  the  new  world's  way  ? 

4  Religious  fervours  !    ardour  misapplied  ! 
Hence,  hence,'  they  cry,  '  ye  do  but  keep  man  blind  ! 
But  keep  him  self -immersed,  preoccupied, 
And  lame  the  active  mind  ! ' 

Ah  !  from  the  old  world  let  some  one  answer  give  : 

*  Scorn  ye  this  world,  their  tears,  their  inward  cares  ? 
I  say  unto  you,  see  that  your  souls  live 

A  deeper  life  than  theirs ! 

'  Say  ye  :   The  spirit  of  man  has  found  new  roads, 
And  we  must  leave  the  old  faiths,  and  walk  therein  ? — 
Leave  then  the  Cross  as  ye  have  left  carved  gods, 
But  guard  the  fire  within  ! 

'  Bright,  else,  and  fast  the  stream  of  life  may  roll, 
And  no  man  may  the  other's  hurt  behold  ; 
Yet  each  will  have  one  anguish — his  own  soul 
Which  perishes  of  cold.' 


230 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


Here  let  that  voice  make  end  ;  then  let  a  strain, 
From  a  far  lonelier  distance,  like  the  wind 
Be  heard,  floating  through  heaven,  and  fill  again 
These  men's  profoundest  mind  : 

'  Children  of  men  !  the  unseen  Power,  whose  eye 
For  ever  doth  accompany  mankind, 
Hath  looked  on  no  religion  scornfully 
That  men  did  ever  find. 

'  Which  has  not  taught  weak  wills  how  much  they  can  ? 
Which  has  not  fall'n  on  the  dry  heart  like  rain  ? 
Which  has  not  cried  to  sunk,  self-weary  man  : 
Thou  must  be  born  again  ! 

'  Children  of  men  !   not  that  your  age  excel 
In  pride  of  life  the  ages  of  your  sires, 
But  that  you  think  clear,  feel  deep,  bear  fruit  well, 
The  Friend  of  man  desires.' 


From  'The  Buried  Life' 

FATE,  which  foresaw 
How  frivolous  a  baby  man  would  be, 
By  what  distractions  he  would  be  possess'd, 
How  he  would  pour  himself  in  every  strife, 
And  well-nigh  change  his  own  identity — 
That  it  might  keep  from  his  capricious  play 
His  genuine  self,  and  force  him  to  obey 
Even  in  his  own  despite,  his  being's  law, 
Bade  through  the  deep  recesses  of  our  breast 
The  unregarded  River  of  our  Life 
Pursue  with  indiscernible  flow  its  way ; 
And  that  we  should  not  see 
The  buried  stream,  and  seem  to  be 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  231 

Eddying  about  in  blind  uncertainty, 
Though  driving  on  with  it  eternally. 

But  often,  in  the  world's  most  crowded  streets, 
But  often,  in  the  din  of  strife, 
There  rises  an  unspeakable  desire 
After  the  knowledge  of  our  buried  life, 
A  thirst  to  spend  our  fire  and  restless  force 
In  tracking  out  our  true,  original  course  ; 
A  longing  to  inquire 
Into  the  mystery  of  this  heart  that  beats 
So  wild,  so  deep  in  us,  to  know 
Whence  our  thoughts  come  and  where  they  go. 
And  many  a  man  in  his  own  breast  then  delves, 
But  deep  enough,  alas,  none  ever  mines ! 
And  we  have  been  on  many  thousand  lines, 
And  we  have  shown,  on  each,  spirit  and  power, 
But  hardly  have  we,  for  one  little  hour, 
Been  on  our  own  line,  have  we  been  ourselves ; 
Hardly  had  skill  to  utter  one  of  all 
The  nameless  feelings  that  course  through  our  breast, 
But  they  course  on  for  ever  unexpress'd. 
And  long  we  try  in  vain  to  speak  and  act 
Our  hidden  self,  and  what  we  say  and  do 
Is  eloquent,  is  well — but  'tis  not  true  ! 

And  then  we  will  no  more  be  rack'd 
With  inward  striving,  and  demand 
Of  all  the  thousand  nothings  of  the  hour 
Their  stupefying  power  ; 
Ah  yes,  and  they  benumb  us  at  our  call : 
Yet  still,  from  time  to  time,  vague  and  forlorn, 
From  the  soul's  subterranean  depth  upborne 
As  from  an  infinitely  distant  land, 
Come  airs,  and  floating  echoes,  and  convey 
A  melancholy  into  all  our  day. 


232 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


Only — but  this  is  rare — 

When  a  beloved  hand  is  laid  in  ours, 

When,  jaded  with  the  rush  and  glare 

Of  the  interminable  hours, 

Our  eyes  can  in  another's  eyes  read  clear, 

When  our  world-deaf  en 'd  ear 

Is  by  the  tones  of  a  loved  voice  caress'd — 

A  bolt  is  shot  back  somewhere  in  our  breast, 

And  a  lost  pulse  of  feeling  stirs  again  : 

The  eye  sinks  inward,  and  the  heart  lies  plain, 

And  what  we  mean,  we  say,  and  what  we  would,  we  know. 

A  man  becomes  aware  of  his  life's  flow, 

And  hears  its  winding  murmur,  and  he  sees 

The  meadows  where  it  glides,  the  sun,  the  breeze. 

And  there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  race 
Wherein  he  doth  for  ever  chase 
That  flying  and  elusive  shadow,  Rest. 
An  air  of  coolness  plays  upon  his  face, 
And  an  unwonted  calm  pervades  his  breast. 
And  then  he  thinks  he  knows 
The  Hills  where  his  life  rose, 
And  the  Sea  where  it  goes. 


From  'Lines  Written  in  Kensington  Gardens } 

CALM  soul  of  all  things !   make  it  mine 
To  feel,  amid  the  city's  jar, 
That  there  abides  a  peace  of  thine, 
Man  did  not  make,  and  cannot  mar  ! 

The  will  to  neither  strive  nor  cry, 
The  power  to  feel  with  others  give  ! 
Calm,  calm  me  more  !   nor  let  me  die 
'  Before  I  have  begun  to  live. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  233 


From  '  Empe  docks  on 

'T'O  the  elements  it  came  from 

JL  Everything  will  return.  . 
Our  bodies  to  earth, 
Our  blood  to  water, 
Heat  to  fire, 
Breath  to  air. 

They  were  well  born,  they  will  be  well  entomb'd  ! 
But  mind  ?  .  .  . 

And  we  might  gladly  share  the  fruitful  stir 

Down  in  our  mother  earth's  miraculous  womb  ! 

Well  might  it  be 

With  what  roll'd  of  us  in  the  stormy  main  ! 

We  might  have  joy,  blent  with  the  all-bathing  air, 

Or  with  the  nimble  radiant  life  of  fire ! 

But  mind — but  thought — 
If  these  have  been  the  master  part  of  us — 
Where  will  they  find  their  parent  element  ? 
What  will  receive  them,  who  will  call  them  home  ? 
But  we  shall  still  be  in  them,  and  they  in  us, 
And  we  shall  be  the  strangers  of  the  world, 
And  they  will  be  our  lords,  as  they  are  now  ; 
And  keep  us  prisoners  of  our  consciousness, 
And  never  let  us  clasp  and  feel  the  All 
But  through  their  forms,  and  modes,  and  stifling  veils. 
And  we  shall  be  unsatisfied  as  now  ; 
And  we  shall  feel  the  agony  of  thirst, 
The  ineffable  longing  for  the  life  of  life 
Baffled  for  ever  :  and  still  thought  and  mind 
Will  hurry  us  with  them  on  their  homeless  march, 
i  3 


234 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


Over  the  unallied  unopening  earth, 

Over  the  unrecognizing  sea  ;   while  air 

Will  blow  us  fiercely  back  to  sea  and  earth, 

And  fire  repel  us  from  its  living  waves. 

And  then  we  shall  unwillingly  return 

Back  to  this  meadow  of  calamity, 

This  uncongenial  place,  this  human  life  ; 

And  in  our  individual  human  state 

Go  through  the  sad  probation  all  again, 

To  see  if  we  will  poise  our  life  at  last, 

To  see  if  we  will  now  at  last  be  true 

To  our  own  only  true,  deep-buried  selves, 

Being  one  with  which  we  are  one  with  the  whole  world  ; 

Or  whether  we  will  once  more  fall  away 

Into  some  bondage  of  the  flesh  or  mind, 

Some  slough  of  sense,  or  some  fantastic  maze 

Forg'd  by  the  imperious  lonely  thinking-power. 

And  each  succeeding  age  in  which  we  are  born 

Will  have  more  peril  for  us  than  the  last ; 

Will  goad  our  senses  with  a  sharper  'spur, 

Will  fret  our  minds  to  an  intenser  play, 

Will  make  ourselves  harder  to  be  discern'd. 

And  we  shall  struggle  awhile,  gasp  and  rebel ; 

And  we  shall  fly  for  refuge  to  past  times, 

Their  soul  of  unworn  youth,  their  breath  of  greatness ; 

And  the  reality  will  pluck  us  back, 

Knead  us  in  its  hot  hand,  and  change  our  nature. 

And  we  shall  feel  our  powers  of  effort  flag, 

And  rally  them  for  one  last  fight,  and  fail ; 

And  we  shall  sink  in  the  impossible  strife, 

And  be  astray  for  ever. 

Slave  of  sense 
I  have  in  no  wise  been  ;  but  slave  of  thought  ? — 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  235 

And  who  can  say  :   I  have  been  always  free, 

Lived  ever  in  the  light  of  my  own  soul  ? — 

I  cannot !   I  have  lived  in  wrath  and  gloom, 

Fierce,  disputatious,  ever  at  war  with  man, 

Far  from  my  own  soul,  far  from  warmth  and  light. 

But  I  have  not  grown  easy  in  these  bonds — 

But  I  have  not  denied  what  bonds  these  were  ! 

Yea,  I  take  myself  to  witness, 

That  I  have  loved  no  darkness, 

Sophisticated  no  truth, 

Nursed  no  delusion, 

Allow'd  no  fear  ! 

And  therefore,  O  ye  elements,  I  know — 
Ye  know  it  too — it  hath  been  granted  me 
Not  to  die  wholly,  not  to  be  all  enslav'd. 
I  feel  it  in  this  hour  !    The  numbing  cloud 
Mounts  off  my  soul ;   I  feel  it,  I  breathe  free  ! 

Is  it  but  for  a  moment  ? 
Ah,  boil  up,  ye  vapours  ! 
Leap  and  roar,  thou  sea  of  fire  ! 
My  soul  glows  to  meet  you. 
Ere  it  flag,  ere  the  mists 
Of  despondency  and  gloom 
Rush  over  it  again, 
Receive  me  !    Save  me ! 

(He  plunges  into  the  crater?) 


236 


COVENTRY  KERSEY  DIGHTON  PATMORE 

1823-1896 
Life  of  Life 

WHAT'S  that,  which,  ere  I  spake,  was  gone  ! 
So  joyful  and  intense  a  spark 
That,  whilst  o'erhead  the  wonder  shone, 

The  day,  before  but  dull,  grew  dark  ? 
I  do  not  know  ;  but  this  I  know, 

That,  had  the  splendour  lived  a  year, 
The  truth  that  I  some  heavenly  show 

Did  see,  could  not  be  now  more  clear. 
This  know  I  too  :   might  mortal  breath 

Express  the  passion  then  inspired, 
Evil  would  die  a  natural  death, 

And  nothing  transient  be  desired  ; 
And  error  from  the  soul  would  pass, 

And  leave  the  senses  pure  and  strong 
As  sunbeams.     But  the  best,  alas, 

Has  neither  memory  nor  tongue  ! 

Fesica  Piscis 

IN  strenuous  hope  I  wrought, 
And  hope  seem'd  still  betray'd  ; 
Lastly  I  said, 

'  I  have  labour'd  through  the  Night,  nor  yet 
Have  taken  aught ; 

But  at  Thy  word  I  will  again  cast  forth  the  net ! ' 
And,  lo,  I  caught 

(Oh,  quite  unlike  and  quite  beyond  my  thought,) 
Not  the  quick,  shining  harvest  of  the  Sea, 
For  food,  my  wish, 
But  Thee  ! 


COVENTRY  KERSEY  DIGHTON  PATMORE    237 

Then,  hiding  even  in  me, 

As  hid  was  Simon's  coin  within  the  fish, 

Thou  sigh'd'st,  with  joy,  *  Be  dumb, 

Or  speak  but  of  forgotten  things  to  far-off  times  to  come.' 

Sponsa  Dei 

WHAT  is  this  maiden  fair, 
The  laughing  of  whose  eye 
Is  in  man's  heart  renew'd  virginity  ; 
Who  yet  sick  longing  breeds 
For  marriage  which  exceeds 
The  inventive  guess  of  Love  to  satisfy 
With  hope  of  utter  binding,  and  of  loosing  endless  dear 

despair  ? 

What  gleams  about  her  shine, 
More  transient  than  delight  and  more  divine  ! 
If  she  does  something  but  a  little  sweet, 
As  gaze  towards  the  glass  to  set  her  hair, 
See  how  his  soul  falls  humbled  at  her  feet ! 
Her  gentle  step,  to  go  or  come, 
Gains  her  more  merit  than  a  martyrdom  ; 
And,  if  she  dance,  it  doth  such  grace  confer 
As  opes  the  heaven  of  heavens  to- more  than  her, 
And  makes  a  rival  of  her  worshipper. 
To  die  unknown  for  her  were  little  cost ! 
So  is  she  without  guile, 
Her  mere  refused  smile 
Makes  up  the  sum  of  that  which  may  be  lost ! 
Who  is  this  Fair 
Whom  each  hath  seen, 
The  darkest  once  in  this  bewailed  dell, 
Be  he  not  destin'd  for  the  glooms  of  hell  ? 
Whom  each  hath  seen 


238    COVENTRY  KERSEY  DIGHTON  PATMORE 

And  known,  with  sharp  remorse  and  sweet,  as  Queen 

And  tear-glad  Mistress  of  his  hopes  of  bliss, 

Too  fair  for  man  to  kiss  ? 

Who  is  this  only  happy  She, 

Whom,  by  a  frantic  flight  of  courtesy, 

Born  of  despair 

Of  better  lodging  for  his  Spirit  fair, 

He  adores  as  Margaret,  Maude,  or  Cecily  ? 

And  what  this  sigh, 

That  each  one  heaves  for  Earth's  last  lowlihead 

And  the  Heaven  high 

Ineffably  lock'd  in  dateless  bridal-bed  ? 

Are  all,  then,  mad,  or  is  it  prophecy  ? 

4  Sons  now  we  are  of  God,'  as  we  have  heard, 

*  But  what  we  shall  be  hath  not  yet  appear'd.' 

O,  Heart,  remember  thee, 

That  Man  is  none, 

Save  One. 

What  if  this  Lady  be  thy  Soul,  and  He 

Who  claims  to  enjoy  her  sacred  beauty  be, 

Not  thou,  but  God  ;  and  thy  sick  fire 

A  female  vanity, 

Such  as  a  Bride,  viewing  her  mirror'd  charms, 

Feels  when  she  sighs,  *  All  these  are  for  his  arms ! ' 

A  reflex  heat 

Flash'd  on  thy  cheek  from  His  immense  desire, 

Which  waits  to  crown,  beyond  thy  brain's  conceit, 

Thy  nameless,  secret,  hopeless  longing  sweet, 

Not  by  and  by,  but  now, 

Unless  deny  Him  thou  ! 


COVENTRY  KERSEY  DIGHTON  PATMORE    239 

To  the  Body 

CREATION'S  and  Creator's  crowning  good  ; 
Wall  of  infinitude ; 
Foundation  of  the  sky, 
In  Heaven  forecast 
And  long'd  for  from  eternity, 
Though  laid  the  last ; 
Reverberating  dome, 
Of  music  cunningly  built  home 
Against  the  void  and  indolent  disgrace 
Of  unresponsive  space  ; 
Little,  sequestered  pleasure-house 
For  God  and  for  His  Spouse  ; 
Elaborately,  yea,  past  conceiving,  fair, 
Since,  from  the  graced  decorum  of  the  hair, 
Ev'n  to.  the  tingling,  sweet 
Soles  of  the  simple,  earth-confiding  feet, 
And  from  the^inmost  heart 
Outwards  unto  the  thin 
Silk  curtains  of  the  skin, 
Every  least  part 
Astonish'd  hears 

And  sweet  replies  to  some  like  region  of  the  spheres ; 
Form'd  for  a  dignity  prophets  but  darkly  name, 
Lest  shameless  men  cry  '  Shame  !  ' 
So  rich  with  wealth  conceal'd 
That  Heaven  and  Hell  fight  chiefly  for  this  field  ; 
Clinging  to  everything  that  pleases  thee 
With  indefectible  fidelity ; 
Alas,  so  true 

To  all  thy  friendships  that  no  grace 
Thee  from  thy  sin  can  wholly  disembrace  ; 
Which  thus  'bides  with  thee  as  the  Jebusite, 


240    COVENTRY  KERSEY  DIGHTON  PATMORE 


That,  maugre  all  God's  promises  could  do, 

The  chosen  People  never  conquer'd  quite ; 

Who  therefore  lived  with  them, 

And  that  by  formal  truce  and  as  of  right, 

In  metropolitan  Jerusalem. 

For  which  false  fealty 

Thou  needs  must,  for  a  season,  lie 

In  the  grave's  arms,  foul  and  unshriven, 

Albeit,  in  Heaven, 

Thy  crimson-throbbing  Glow 

Into  its  old  abode  aye  pants  to  go, 

And  does  with  envy  see 

Enoch,  Elijah,  and  the  Lady,  she 

Who  left  the  lilies  in  her  body's  lieu. 

O,  if  the  pleasures  I  have  known  in  thee 

But  my  poor  faith's  poor  first-fruits  be, 

What  quintessential,  keen,  ethereal  bliss 

Then,  shall  be  his 

Who  has  thy  birth-time's  consecrating  dew 

For  death's  sweet  chrism  retain'd, 

Quick,  tender,  virginal,  and  unprofaned  ! 

AUGUSTA  THEODOSIA  DRANE 

1823-1894 
Forgotten  among  the  jLilies 

I  fainted  away  abandoned  ; 
And  amid  the  lilies  forgotten 
Threw  all  my  cares  away. 
(St.  John  of  the  Cross.    The  Obscure  Night,  Stanza  viii ) 

THROUGH  the  dark  night  I  wander  on  alone, 
And,  as  one  blinded,  grope  my  weary  way, 
Without  a  lamp  to  shed  its  guiding  ray  ; 
I  wander  on  unseen,  and  seeing  none, 
And  caring  to  behold  but  only  One. 


AUGUSTA  THEODOSIA  DRANE          241 

I  see  not,  yet  my  heart  will  give  me  light, 

And  safer  than  the  noonday  sun  will  guide 

To  where  the  Bridegroom  waiteth  for  the  Bride ; 

So  walking  on  in  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

I  cannot  fear  but  He  will  guide  me  right.  .  .  . 

Forgotten  'mid  the  lilies  ;  for  I  feel 

Their  gentle  blossoms  wave  above  my  head  ; 

I  breathe  the  magic  perfume  which  they  shed, 

As  though  my  bleeding  wounds  they  fain  would  heal, 

And  from  my  heart  its  aching  sorrow  steal. 

A  sad,  sweet  lot — I  needs  must  call  it  sweet ; 
My  cares,  like  withered  buds,  I  cast  aside, 
And  reck  but  little  what  may  next  betide  ; 
The  days  and  years  fly  past  on  pinions  fleet, 
Amid  these  lilies  crushed  beneath  His  feet. 

Forgotten  and  abandoned  ; — yet  withal 
Leaning  my  heart  upon  my  only  Love  : 
Nay,  raise  me  not,  I  do  not  care  to  move  ; 
Soon  I  shall  hear  His  gentle  footstep  fall, 
And  lift  my  eyes,  and  answer  to  His  call. 

Till  then  among  the  lilies  let  me  lie  ; 
See,  I  have  cast  my  idle  cares  away  : 
Howe'er  it  be,  I  am  content  to  stay 
Until  once  more  the  Bridegroom  passes  by, 
And.  hither  turns  His  gracious,  pitying  eye. 

Blame  not  my  folly,  for  I  know  full  well 
My  words  can  nought  but  idle  babbling  seem, 
The  madness  of  a  fond  and  foolish  dream  : 
Bear  with  my  folly,  for  the  thoughts  that  swell 
This  burning  heart,  I  cannot,  dare  not  tell. 


242          AUGUSTA  THEODOSIA  DRANE 

Know  only  this — I  suffer,  yet  I  rest ; 
For  all  my  cares  and  fears  are  cast  away, 
And  more  than  this  I  know  not  how  to  say  ; 
Forgotten  though  I  be,  I  own  it  best 
And  'mid  the  lilies  lie  in  perfect  rest. 


What  the  Soul  Desires 

There  Thou  wilt  show  me  what  my  soul  desired  ; 
There  Thou  wilt  give  at  once,  0  my  Life,  what  Thou  gavest 
me  the  other  day  ! 

(St.  John  of  the  Cross.   Spiritual  Canticle,  Stanza  xxxviii) 

THERE  is  a  rapture  that  my  soul  desires, 
There  is  a  something  that  I  cannot  name ; 
I  know  not  after  what  my  soul  aspires, 
Nor  guess  from  whence  the  restless  longing  came  ; 
But  ever  from  my  childhood  have  I  felt  it, 
In  all  things  beautiful  and  all  things  gay, 
And  ever  has  its  gentle,  unseen  presence 
Fallen,  like  a  shadow-cloud,  across  my  way. 

It  is  the  melody  of  all  sweet  music, 
In  all  fair  forms  it  is  the  hidden  grace  ; 
In  all  I  love,  a  something  that  escapes  me, 
Flies  my  pursuit,  and  ever  veils  its  face. 
I  see  it  in  the  woodland's  summer  beauty, 
I  hear  it  in  the  breathing  of  the  air  ; 
I  stretch  my  hands  to  feel  for  it,  and  grasp  it, 
But  ah  !  too  well  I  know,  it  is  not  there. 

In  sunset-hours,  when  all  the  earth  is  golden, 
And  rosy  clouds  are  hastening  to  the  west, 
I  catch  a  waving  gleam,  and  then  'tis  vanished, 
And  the  old  longing  once  more  fills  my  breast. 


AUGUSTA  THEODOSIA  DRANE          243 

It  is  not  pain,  although  the  fire  consumes  me, 
Bound  up  with  memories  of  my  happiest  years  ; 
It  steals  into  my  deepest  joys — O  mystery ! 
It  mingles,  too,  with  all  my  saddest  tears. 

Once,  only  once,  there  rose  the  heavy  curtain, 

The  clouds  rolled  back,  and  for  too  brief  a  space 

I  drank  in  joy  as  from  a  living  fountain, 

And  seemed  to  gaze  upon  it,  face  to  face  : 

But  of  that  day  and  hour  who  shall  venture 

With  lips  untouched  by  seraph's  fire  to  tell  ? 

I  saw  Thee,  O  my  Life  !   I  heard,  I  touched  Thee,— 

Then  o'er  my  soul  once  more  the  darkness  fell. 

The  darkness  fell,  and  all  the  glory  vanished  ; 
I  strove  to  call  it  back,  but  all  in  vain  : 
O  rapture  !  to  have  seen  it  for  a  moment ! 
O  anguish  !  that  it  never  came  again  ! 
That  lightning-flash  of  joy  that  seemed  eternal, 
Was  it  indeed  but  wandering  fancy's  dream  ? 
Ah,  surely  no  !  that  day  the  heavens  opened, 
And  on  my  soul  there  fell  a  golden  gleam. 

0  Thou,  my  Life,  give  me  what  then  Thou  gavest ! 
No  angel  vision  do  I  ask  to  see, 

1  seek  no  ecstasy  of  mystic  rapture, 

Naught,  naught,  my  Lord,  my  Life,  but  only  Thee  ! 
That  golden  gleam  hath  purged  my  sight,  revealing, 
In  the  fair  ray  reflected  from  above, 
Thyself,  beyond  all  sight,  beyond  all  feeling, 
The  hidden  Beauty,  and  the  hidden  Love. 

As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water-brooks, 
And  seeks  the  shades  whence  cooling  fountains  burst; 
Even  so  for  Thee,  O  Lord,  my  spirit  fainteth, 
Thyself  alone  hath  power  to  quench  its  thirst. 


244          AUGUSTA  THEODOSIA  DRANE 

Give  me  what  then  Thou  gavest,  for  I  seek  it 
No  longer  in  Thy  creatures,  as  of  old  ; 
I  strive  no  more  to  grasp  the  empty  shadow, 
The  secret  of  my  life  is  found  and  told  ! 


GEORGE  MAC  DONALD 

1824-1905 

^  Prayer  for  the  Past 

AVL  sights  and  sounds  of  day  and  year, 
All  groups  and  forms,  each  leaf  and  gem, 
Are  thine,  O  God,  nor  will  I  fear 
To  talk  to  Thee  of  them. 

Too  great  Thy  heart  is  to  despise, 
Whose  day  girds  centuries  about ; 
From  things  which  we  name  small,  Thine  eyes 
See  great  things  looking  out. 

Therefore  the  prayerful  song  I  sing 
May  come  to  Thee  in  ordered  words : 
Though  lowly  born,  it  needs  not  cling 
In  terror  to  its  chords. 

I  think  that  nothing  made  is  lost ; 
That  not  a  moon  has  ever  shone, 
That  not  a  cloud  my  eyes  hath  crossed 
But  to  my  soul  is  gone. 

That  all  the  lost  years  garnered  lie 
In  this  Thy  casket,  my  dim  soul ; 
And  Thou  wilt,  ouce,  the  key  apply, 
And  show  the  shining  whole. 


GEORGE  MAC  DONALD  245 

But  were  they  dead  in  me,  they  live 
In  Thee,  Whose  Parable  is— Time, 
And  Worlds,  and  Forms — all  things  that  give 
Me  thoughts,  and  this  my  rime. 


Father,  in  joy  our  knees  we  bow  : 
This  earth  is  not*a  place  of  tombs  : 
We  are  but  in  the  nursery  now  j 
They  in  the  upper  rooms. 

For  are  we  not  at  home  in  Thee, 
And  all  this  world  a  visioned  show  ; 
That,  knowing  what  Abroad  is,  we 
What  Home  is  too  may  know  ? 


w 


Approaches 

HEN  thou  turn'st  away  from  ill, 
Christ  is  this  side  of  thy  hill. 


When  thou  turnest  toward  good, 
Christ  is  walking  in  thy  wood. 

When  thy  heart  says,  '  Father,  pardon  ! ' 
Then  the  Lord  is  in  thy  garden. 

When  stern  Duty  wakes  to  watch, 
Then  His  hand  is  on  the  latch. 

But  when  Hope  thy  song  doth  rouse, 
Then  the  Lord  is  in  the  house. 


246  GEORGE  MAC  DONALD 

When  to  love  is  all  thy  wit, 
Christ  doth  at  thy  table  sit. 

When  God's  will  is  thy  heart's  pole, 
Then  is  Christ  thy  very  soul. 


De  Profundts 

WHEN  I  am  dead  unto  myself,  and  let, 
O  Father,  Thee  live  on  in  me, 
Contented  to  do  naught  but  pay  my  debt, 
And  leave  the  house  to  Thee, 


Then  shall  I  be  Thy  ransomed — from  the  cark 
Of  living,  from  the  strain  for  breath, 

From  tossing  in  my  coffin  strait  and  dark, 
At  hourly  strife  with  death  ! 


Have  mercy  !  in  my  coffin  !   and  awake  ! 

A  buried  temple  of  the  Lord  ! 
Grow,  Temple,  grow  !   Heart,  from  thy  cerements  break  ! 

Stream  out,  O  living  Sword  ! 


When  I  am  with  Thee  as  thou  art  with  me, 
Life  will  be  self-forgetting  power  ; 

Love,  ever  conscious,  buoyant,  clear,  and  free, 
Will  flame  in  darkest  hour. 


GEORGE  MAC  DONALD  247 

Where  now  I  sit  alone,  unmoving,  calm, 

With  windows  open  to  Thy  wind, 
Shall  I  not  know  Thee  in  the  radiant  psalm 

Soaring  from  heart  and  mind  ? 


The  body  of  this  death  will  melt  away, 
And  I  shall  know  as  I  am  known  ; 

Know  Thee  my  Father,  every  hour  and  day, 
As  Thou  know'st  me  Thine  Own  ! 


Lost  and  Found 

I  MISSED  him  when  the  sun  began  to  bend  ; 
I  found  him  not  when  I  had  lost  his  rim  ; 
With  many  tears  I  went  in  search  of  him, 
Climbing  high  mountains  which  did  still  ascend, 
And  gave  me  echoes  when  I  called  my  friend  ; 
Through  cities  vast  and  charnel-houses  grim, 
And  high  cathedrals  where  the  light  was  dim, 
Through  books  and  arts  and  works  without  an  end, 
But  found  him  not — the  friend  whom  I  had  lost. 
And  yet  I  found  him — as  I  found  the  lark, 
A  sound  in  fields  I  heard  but  could  not  mark  ; 
I  found  him  nearest  when  I  missed  him  most ; 
I  found  him  in  my  heart,  a  life  in  frost, 
A  light  I  knew  not  till  my  soul  was  dark. 


248 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER 
ARCHBISHOP  OF  ARMAGH 

Sonnets 
Suggested  by  St.  Augustine 


1824-1911 


WHAT  love  I  when  I  love  Thee,  O  my  God  ? 
Not  corporal  beauty,  nor  the  limb  of  snow, 

Nor  of  loved  light  the  white  and  pleasant  flow, 
Nor  manna  showers,  nor  streams  that  flow  abroad, 
Nor  flowers  of  Heaven,  nor  small  stars  of  the  sod  : 

Not  these,  my  God,  I  love,  who  love  Thee  so  ; 

Yet  love  I  something  better  than  I  know  : — 
A  certain  light  on  a  more  golden  road  ; 
A  sweetness,  not  of  honey  or  the  hive  ; 

A  beauty,  not  of  summer  or  the  spring  ; 

A  scent,  a  music,  and  a  blossoming 
Eternal,  timeless,  placeless,  without  gyve, 

Fair,  fadeless,  undiminish'd,  ever  dim, — 

This,  this  is  what  I  love  in  loving  Him. 


This,  this  is  what  I  love,  and  what  is  this  ? 

I  ask'd  the  beautiful  earth,  who  said — *  not  I '. 

I  ask'd  the  depths,  and  the  immaculate  sky 
And  all  the  spaces  said — '  not  He  but  His.' 
And  so,  like  one  who  scales  a  precipice, 

Height  after  height,  I  scaled  the  flaming  ball 

Of  the  great  universe,  yea,  pass'd  o'er  all 
The  world  of  thought,  which  so  much  higher  is. 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  249 

Then  I  exclaimed,  '  To  whom  is  mute  all  murmur 

Of  phantasy,  of  nature,  and  of  art, 
He,  than  articulate  language  hears  a  firmer 

And  grander  meaning  in  his  own  deep  heart. 
No  sound  from  cloud  or  angel.'    Oh,  to  win 
That  voiceless  voice — *  My  servant,  enter  in  ' ! 


FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE 

1825-1897 
The  City  of  God 

'I5ou  "ya/J,  17  fiarsiXiiu  rov  Qeov  erros  vfjiwv  eari. 

OTHOU  not  made  with  hands, 
Not  throned  above  the  skies, 
Nor  wall'd  with  shining  walls, 
Nor  framed  with  stones  of  price, 
More  bright  than  gold  or  gem, 
God's  own  Jerusalem ! 

Where'er  the  gentle  heart 
Finds  courage  from  above  ; 
Where'er  the  heart  forsook 
Warms  with  the  breath  of  love  ; 

Where  faith  bids  fear  depart, 

City  of  God  !  thou  art. 

Thou  art  where'er  the  proud 
In  humbleness  melts  down  ; 
Where  self  itself  yields  up  ; 
Where  martyrs  win  their  crown  ; 

Where  faithful  souls  possess 

Themselves  in  perfect  peace 


250          FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE 

Where  in  life's  common  ways 
With  cheerful  feet  we  go  ; 
When  in  His  steps  we  tread 
Who  trod  the  way  of  woe  ; 
Where  He  is  in  the  heart, 
City  of  God  !  thou  art. 

Not  throned  above  the  skies, 
Nor  golden-wall'd  afar, 
But  where  Christ's  two  or  three 
In  His  name  gather'd  are, 

Be  in  the  midst  of  them, 

God's  own  Jerusalem ! 


DINAH  MARIA  (MULOCK)  CRAIK 
The  Human  Temple 


1826-1887 


'  Know  ye  not  that  ye  are  the  temple  of  God,  and  that  the  spirit 
of  God  dwelleth  in  you  ?' 

The  Temple  in  Darkness 

DARKNESS  broods  upon  the  temple, 
Glooms  along  the  lonely  aisles, 
Fills  up  all  the  orient  window, 

Whence,  like  little  children's  wiles, 
Shadows — purple,  azure,  golden — 
Broke  upon  the  floor  in  smiles. 

From  the  great  heart  of  the  organ 
Bursts  no  voice  of  chant  or  psalm  ; 

All  the  air,  by  music-pulses 

Stirred  no  more,  is  deathly  calm  ; 

And  no  precious  incense  rising, 

Falls,  like  good  men's  prayer,  in  balm. 


DINAH  MARIA  (MULOCK)  CRAIK      251 

Not  a  sound  of  living  footstep 

Echoes  on  the  marble  floor  ; 
Not  a  sigh  of  stranger  passing 

Pierces  through  the  closed  door ; 
Quenched  the  light  upon  the  altar : 

Where  the  priest  stood,  none  stands  more. 

Lord,  why  hast  Thou  left  Thy  temple 
Scorned  of  man,  disowned  by  Thee  ? 

Rather  let  Thy  right  hand  crush  it, 
None  its  desolation  see  ! 

List — '  He  who  the  temple  builded 

Doth  His  will  there.     Let  it  be  !  ' 
\ 

A  Light  in  the  Temple 
Lo,  a  light  within  the  temple  ! 

Whence  it  cometh  no  man  knows ; 
Barred  the  doors  :   the  night-black  windows 

Stand  apart  in  solemn  rows, 
All  without  seems  gloom  eternal, 

Yet  the  glimmer  comes  and  goes — 

As  if  silent-footed  angels 

Through  the  dim  aisles  wandered  fair, 
Only  traced  amid  the  darkness, 

By  the  glory  in  their  hair, 
Till  at  the  forsaken  altar 

They  all  met,  and  praised  God  there. 

Now  the  light  grows — fuller,  clearer  ; 

Hark,  the  organ  'gins  to  sound, 
Faint,  like  broken  spirit  crying 

Unto  Heaven  from  the  ground  ; 
While  the  chorus  of  the  angels 

Mingles  everywhere  around. 


252        DINAH  MARIA  (MULOCK)  CRAIK 

See,  the  altar  shines  all  radiant, 
Though  no  mortal  priest  there  stands, 

And  no  earthly  congregation 
Worships  with  uplifted  hands : 

Yet  they  gather,  slow  and  saintly, 
In  innumerable  bands. 

And  the  chant  celestial  rises 

Where  the  human  prayers  have  ceased 

No  tear-sacrifice  is  offered, 
For  all  anguish  is  appeased, 

Through  its  night  of  desolation, 
To  His  temple  comes  the  Priest. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

1828-1882 
The  Sea-Limits 

CONSIDER  the  sea's  listless  chime  : 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible, — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shell. 
Secret  continuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea's  end :  our  sight  may  pass 

No  furlong  farther.     Since  time  was, 

This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's, — it  hath 

The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 

Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 
As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 

Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 

Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands, 
Grey  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  253 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods ; 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee  : 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men 

Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again, — 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 

And  listen  at  its  lips  :   they  sigh 

The  same  desire  and  mystery, 
The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech 

And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 

Not  anything  but  what  thou  art  : 
And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each". 


The  Monochord 

IS  it  the  moved  air  or  the  moving  sound 
That  is  Life's  self  and  draws  my  life  from  me, 
And  by  instinct  ineffable  decree 
Holds  my  breath  quailing  on  the  bitter  bound  ? 
Nay,  is  it  Life  or  Death,  thus  thunder-crowned, 
That  'mid  the  tide  of  all  emergency 
Now  notes  my  separate  wave,  and  to  what  sea 
Its  difficult  eddies  labour  in  the  ground  ? 

Oh  !  what  is  this  that  knows  the  road  I  came, 

The  flame  turned  cloud,  the  cloud  returned  to  flame, 

The  lifted  shifted  steeps  and  all  the  way  ? — 
That  draws  round  me  at  last  this  wind-warm  space, 
And  in  regenerate  rapture  turns  my  face 

Upon  the  devious  coverts  of  dismay  ? 


254 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 
Outer  and  Inner 

FROM  twig  to  twig  the  spider  weaves 
At  noon  his  webbing  fine. 
So  near  to  mute  the  zephyrs  flute 

That  only  leaflets  dance. 
The  sun  draws  out  of  hazel  leaves 

A  smell  of  woodland  wine. 
I  wake  a  swarm  to  sudden  storm 
At  any  step's  advance. 

Along  my  path  is  bugloss  blue, 

The  star  with  fruit  in  moss  ; 
The  foxgloves  drop  from  throat  to  top 

A  daily  lesser  bell. 
The  blackest  shadow,  nurse  of  dew, 

Has  orange  skeins  across ; 
And  keenly  red  is  one  thin  thread 

That  flashing  seems  to  swell. 

My  world  I  note  ere  fancy  comes, 

Minutest  hushed  observe  : 
What  busy  bits  of  motioned  wits 

Through  antlered  mosswork  strive. 
But  now  so  low  the  stillness  hums, 

My  springs  of  seeing  swerve, 
For  half  a  wink  to  thrill  and  think 

The  woods  with  nymphs  alive. 

I  neighbour  the  invisible 

So  close  that  my  consent 
Is  only  asked  for  spirits  masked 

To  leap  from  trees  and  flowers. 


1828-1909 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  255 

And  this  because  with  them  I  dwell 

In  thought,  while  calmly  bent 
To  read  the  lines  dear  Earth  designs 

Shall  speak  her  life  on  ours. 

Accept,  she  says  ;  it  is  not  hard 

In  woods ;   but  she  in  towns 
Repeats,  accept ;   and  have  we  wept, 

And  have  we  quailed  with  fears, 
Or  shrunk  with  horrors,  sure  reward 

We  have  whom  knowledge  crowns  ; 
Who  see  in  mould  the  rose  unfold, 

The  soul  through  blood  and  tears. 


HENRY  NUTCOMBE  OXENHAM 

1829-1888 
The  Child-Christ  on  the  Cross 

1  Dolor  meus  in  conspectu  meo  semper.' 

VICTIM  of  love,  in  manhood's  prime 
Thou  wilt  ascend  the  Cross  to  die  : 
Why  hangs  the  Child  before  His  time 
Stretched  on  that  bed  of  agony  ? 

'  No  thorn -wreath  crowns  My  boyish  brow, 

No  scourge  has  dealt  its  cruel  smart, 
In  hands  and  feet  no  nail-prints  show, 

No  spear  is  planted  in  My  heart. 

'  They  have  not  set  Me  for  a  sign, 

Hung  bare  beneath  the  sunless  sky ; 
Nor  mixed  the  draught  of  gall  and  wine 

To  mock  My  dying  agony. 


256          HENRY  NUTCOMBE  OXENHAM 

(  The  livelong  night,  the  livelong  day, 
My  child,  I  travail  for  thy  good, 

And  for  thy  sake  I  hang  alway 
Self-crucified  upon  the  Rood. 

'  To  witness  to  the  living  Truth, 
To  keep  thee  pure  from  sin's  alloy, 

I  cloud  the  sunshine  of  My  youth  ; 
The  Man  must  suffer  in  the  Boy. 

4  Visions  of  unrepented  sin, 

The  forfeit  crown,  the  eternal  loss, 

Lie  deep  my  sorrowing  soul  within, 
And  nail  My  Body  to  the  Cross. 

'  The  livelong  night,  the  livelong  day, 
A  Child  upon  that  Cross  I  rest ; 

All  night  I  for  My  children  pray, 
All  day  I  woo  them  to  My  breast. 

*  Long  years  of  toil  and  pain  are  Mine, 

Ere  I  be  lifted  up  to  die, 
Where  cold  the  Paschal  moonbeams  shine 

At  noon  on  darkened  Calvary. 

'  Then  will  the  thorn-wreath  pierce  My  brow, 
The  nails  will  fix  Me  to  the  tree  ; 

But  I  shall  hang  as  I  do  now, 
Self-crucified  for  love  of  thee  ! ' 


257 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI 

1830-1894 
Hymn,  after  Gabriele  Rossetti 

MY  Lord,  my  Love  !  in  pleasant  pain 
How  often  have  I  said, 
'  Blessed  that  John  who  on  Thy  breast 

Laid  down  his  head.' 
It  was  that  contact  all  divine 

Transformed  him  from  above, 
And  made  him  amongst  men  the  man 
To  show  forth  holy  love. 

Yet  shall  I  envy  blessed  John  ? 

Nay  not  so  verily, 
Now  that  Thou,  Lord,  both  Man  and  God, 

Dost  dwell  in  me  : 
Upbuilding  with  Thy  Manhood's  might 

My  frail  humanity  ; 
Yea,  Thy  Divinehood  pouring  forth, 

In  fullness  filling  me. 

Me,  Lord,  Thy  temple  consecrate, 

Even  me  to  Thee  alone ; 
Lord,  reign  upon  my  willing  heart 

Which  is  Thy  throne  : 
To  Thee  the  Seraphim  fall  down 

Adoring  round  Thy  house  ; 
For  which  of  them  hath  tasted  Thee 

My  Manna  and  my  Spouse  ? 

Now  that  Thy  life  lives  in  my  soul 
And  sways  and  warms  it  through, 

I  scarce  seem  lesser  than  the  world, 

Thy  temple  too. 
MYST-  K 


258       CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI 

O  God,  who  dwellest  in  my  heart, 

My  God  who  fillest  me, 
The  broad  immensity  itself 

Hath  not  encompassed  Thee. 

After  Communion 

WHY  should  I  call  Thee  Lord,  Who  art  my  God  ? 
Why  should  I  call  Thee  Friend,Who  art  my  Love  ? 

Or  King,  Who  art  my  very  Spouse  above  ? 
Or  call  Thy  Sceptre  on  my  heart  Thy  rod  ? 

Lo  now  Thy  banner  over  me  is  love, 
All  heaven  flies  open  to  me  at  Thy  nod  : 
For  Thou  hast  lit  Thy  flame  in  me  a  clod, 

Made  me  a  nest  for  dwelling  of  Thy  Dove. 

What  wilt  Thou  call  me  in  our  home  above, 
Who  now  hast  called  me  friend  ?  how  will  it  be 

When  Thou  for  good  wine  settest  forth  the  best  ? 
Now  Thou  dost  bid  me  come  and  sup  with  Thee, 

Now  Thou  dost  make  me  lean  upon  Thy  breast : 
How  will  it  be  with  me  in  time  of  love  ? 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN 

1830-1897 
Pain 

HT'HE  man  that  hath  great  griefs  I  pity  not ; 
1    'Tis  something  to  be  great 

In  any  wise,  and  hint  the  larger  state, 
Though  but  in  shadow  of  a  shade,  God  wot ! 

Moreover,  while  we  wait  the  possible, 

This  man  has  touched  the  fact, 

And  probed  till  he  has  felt  the  core,  where,  packed 
In  pulpy  folds,  resides  the  ironic  ill. 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN  259 

And  while  we  others  sip  the  obvious  sweet — 

Lip-licking  after-taste 

Of  glutinous  rind,  lo  !   this  man  hath  made  haste, 
And  pressed  the  sting  that  holds  the  central  seat. 

For  thus  it  is  God  stings  us  into  life, 

Provoking  actual  souls 

From  bodily  systems,  giving  us  the  poles 
That  are  His  own,  not  merely  balanced  strife. 

Nay,  the  great  passions  are  His  veriest  thought, 

Which  whoso  can  absorb, 

Nor,  querulous  halting,  violate  their  orb, 
In  him  the  mind  of  God  is  fullest  wrought. 

Thrice  happy  such  an  one  !    Far  other  he 

Who  dallies  on  the  edge 

Of  the  great  vortex,  clinging  to  a  sedge 
Of  patent  good,  a  timorous  Manichee  ; 

Who  takes  the  impact  of  a  long-breathed  force, 

And  fritters  it  away 

In  eddies  of  disgust,  that  else  might  stay 
His  nerveless  heart,  and  fix  it  to  the  course. 

For  there  is  threefold  oneness  with  the  One  ; 

And  he  is  one,  who  keeps 

The  homely  laws  of  life  ;  who,  if  he  sleeps, 
Or  wakes,  in  his  true  flesh  God's  will  is  done. 

And  he  is  one,  who  takes  the  deathless  forms, 

Who  schools  himself  to  think 

With  the  All-thinking,  holding  fast  the  link, 
God-riveted,  that  bridges  casual  storms. 


200 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN 


But  tenfold  one  is  he,  who  feels  all  pains 

Not  partial,  knowing  them 

As  ripples  parted  from  the  gold-beaked  stem, 
Wherewith  God's  galley  onward  ever  strains. 

To  him  the  sorrows  are  the  tension-thrills 

Of  that  serene  endeavour, 

Which  yields  to  God  for  ever  and  for  ever 
The  joy  that  is  more  ancient  than  the  hills. 


My  Garden 

A  GARDEN  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot ! 
Rose  plot, 
Fringed  pool, 
Ferned  grot — 
The  veriest  school 
Of  peace  ;   and  yet  the  fool 
Contends  that  God  is  not — 
Not  God  !  in  gardens !  when  the  eve  is  cool  ? 
Nay,  but  I  have  a  sign  ; 
'Tis  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine. 


Disguises 

HIGH  stretched  upon  the  swinging  yard, 
I  gather  in  the  sheet ; 
But  it  is  hard 

And  stiff,  and  one  cries  haste. 
Then  He  that  is  most  dear  in  my  regard 
Of  all  the  crew  gives  aidance  meet ; 
But  from  His  hands,  and  from  His  feet, 
A  glory  spreads  wherewith  the  night  is  starred  : 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN  261 

Moreover  of  a  cup  most  bitter-sweet 

With  fragrance  as  of  nard, 

And  myrrh,  and  cassia  spiced, 

He  proffers  me  to  taste. 

Then  I  to  Him  :— '  Art  Thou  the  Christ  ? ' 

He  saith— <  Thou  say'st.' 

Like  to  an  ox 

That  staggers  'neath  the  mortal  blow, 

She  grinds  upon  the  rocks  : — 

Then  straight  and  low 

Leaps  forth  the  levelled  line,  and  in  our  quarter  locks. 

The  cradle's  rigged  ;   with  swerving  of  the  blast 

We  go, 

Our  Captain  last — 

Demands 

*  Who  fired  that  shot  ? '   Each  silent  stands — 

Ah,  sweet  perplexity  ! 

This  too  was  He. 

I  have  an  arbour  wherein  came  a  toad 

Most  hideous  to  see — 

Immediate,  seizing  staff  or  goad, 

I  smote  it  cruelly. 

Then  all  the  place  with  subtle  radiance  glowed — 

I  looked,  and  it  was  He  ! 


Land,  Ho! 

I  KNOW  'tis  but  a  loom  of  land, 
Yet  is  it  land,  and  so  I  will  rejoice, 
I  know  I  cannot  hear  His  voice 

Upon  the  shore,  nor  see  Him  stand  ; 
Yet  is  it  land,  ho  !   land. 


262  THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN 

The  land  !  the  land  !   the  lovely  land  ! 
4  Far  off,'  dost  say  ?    Far  of — ah,  blessed  home  ! 
Farewell !   farewell !    thou  salt  sea-foam  ! 

Ah,  keel  upon  the  silver  sand — 

Land,  ho  !  land. 

You  cannot  see  the  land,  my  land, 
You  cannot  see,  and  yet  the  land  is  there — 
My  land,  my  land,  through  murky  air — 

I  did  not  say  'twas  close  at  hand — 

But — land,  ho  !   land. 

Dost  hear  the  bells  of  my  sweet  land, 
Dost  hear  the  kine,  dost  hear  the  merry  birds  ? 
No  voice,  'tis  true,  no  spoken  words, 

No  tongue  that  thou  may'st  understand — 

Yet  is  it  land,  ho  !  land. 

It 's  clad  in  purple  mist,  my  land, 
In  regal  robe  it  is  apparelled, 
A  crown  is  set  upon  its  head, 

And  on  its  breast  a  golden  band — 

Land,  ho  !   land. 

Dost  wonder  that  I  long  for  land  f 
My  land  is  not  a  land  as  others  are — 
Upon  its  crest  there  beams  a  star, 

And  lilies  grow  upon  the  strand — 

Land,  ho  !   land. 

Give  me  the  helm  !  there  is  the  land  ! 
Ha  !  lusty  mariners,  she  takes  the  breeze  ! 
And  what  my  spirit  sees  it  sees — 

Leap,  bark,  as  leaps  the  thunder  brand — 

Land,  ho  !  land. 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN  263 


Specula 

WHEN  He  appoints  to  meet  thee,  go  thou  forth- 
It  matters  not 
If  south  or  north, 

Bleak  waste  or  sunny  plot. 
Nor  think,  if  haply  He  thou  seek'st  be  late, 

He  does  thee  wrong. 
To  stile  or  gate 

Lean  thou  thy  head,  and  long  ! 
It  may  be  that  to  spy  thee  He  is  mounting 

Upon  a  tower, 
Or  in  thy  counting 

Thou  hast  mista'en  the  hour. 
But,  if  He  comes  not,  neither  do  thou  go 

Till  Vesper  chime. 
Belike  thou  then  shalt  know 

He  hath  been  with  thee  all  the  time. 


JEAN  INGELOW 

x  1830-1897 

From  '  Scholar  and  Carpenter ' 

GRAND  is  the  leisure  of  the  earth  ; 
She  gives  her  happy  myriads  birth, 
And  after  harvest  fears  not  dearth, 

But  goes  to  sleep  in  snow-wreaths  dim. 
Dread  is  the  leisure  up  above 
The  while  He  sits  whose  name  is  Love, 
And  waits,  as  Noah  did,  for  the  dove, 
To  wit  if  she  would  fly  to  him. 


264  JEAN  INGELOW 

'  He  waits  for  us,  while,  houseless  things, 
We  beat  about  with  bruised  wings 
On  the  dark  floods  and  water-springs, 

The  ruined  world,  the  desolate  sea  ; 
With  open  windows  from  the  prime 
All  night,  all  day,  He  waits  sublime, 
Until  the  fullness  of  the  time 

Decreed  from  His  eternity. 

'  Where  is  OUR  leisure  ? — Give  us  rest. 
Where  is  the  quiet  we  possessed  ? 
We  must  have  had  it  once — were  blest 

With  peace  whose  phantoms  yet  entice. 
Sorely  the  mother  of  mankind 
Longed  for  the  garden  left  behind  ; 
For  we  still  prove  some  yearnings  blind 

Inherited  from  Paradise.' 

'  Hold,  heart ! '   I  cried  ;   *  for  trouble  sleeps  ; 
I  hear  no  sound  of  aught  that  weeps ; 
I  will  not  look  into  thy  deeps — 

I  am  afraid,  I  am  afraid  ! ' 
'  Afraid  ! '   she  saith  ;   *  and  yet  'tis  true 
That  what  man  dreads  he  still  should  view — 
Should  do  the  thing  he  fears-to  do, 

And  storm  the  ghosts  in  ambuscade  ! ' 

'  What  good  !  '  I  sigh.    *  Was  reason  meant 
To  straighten  branches  that  are  bent, 
Or  soothe  an  ancient  discontent, 

The  instinct  of  a  race  dethroned  ? 
Ah  !   doubly  should  that  instinct  go, 
Must  the  four  rivers  cease  to  flow, 
Nor  yield  those  rumours  sweet  and  low 

Wherewith  man's  life  is  undertoned.' 


JEAN  INGELOW  265 

'  Yet  had  I  but  the  past,'  she  cries, 
*  And  it  was  lost,  I  would  arise 
And  comfort  me  some  other  wise. 

But  more  than  loss  about  me  clings : 
I  am  but  restless  with  my  race  ; 
The  whispers  from  a  heavenly  place, 
Once  dropped  among  us,  seem  to  chase 

Rest  with  their  prophet-visitings. 

{  The  race  is  like  a  child,  as  yet 
Too  young  for  all  things  to  be  set 
Plainly  before  him,  with  no  let 

Or  hindrance  meet  for  his  degree  ; 
But  ne'ertheless  by  much  too  old 
Not  to  perceive  that  men  withhold 
More  of  the  story  than  is  told, 

And  so  infer  a  mystery. 

4  If  the  Celestials  daily  fly 
With  message?  on  missions  high, 
And  float,  our  nests  and  turrets  nigh, 

Conversing  on  Heaven's  great  intents; 
What  wonder  hints  of  coming  things, 
Whereto  men's  hope  and  yearning  clings, 
Should  drop  like  feathers  from  their  wings 

And  give  us  vague  presentiments. 

'  And  as  the  waxing  moon  can  take 

The  tidal  waters  in  her  wake, 

And  lead  them  round  and  round,  to  break 

Obedient  to  her  drawings  dim  ; 
So  may  the  movements  of  His  mind, 
The  first  Great  Father  of  mankind, 
Affect  with  answering  movements  blind, 

And  draw  the  souls  that  breathe  by  Him. 


266 


JEAN  INGELOW 


'  We  had  a  message  long  ago 
That  like  a  river  peace  should  flow, 
And  Eden  bloom  again  below. 

We  heard,  and  we  began  to  wait  : 
Full  soon  that  message  men  forgot ; 
Yet  waiting  is  their  destined  lot, 
And,  waiting  for  they  know  not  what, 

They  strive  with  yearnings  passionate.' 


SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD 
From  '  The  Light  of  Asia  ' 


1832-1904 


OM,  AMITAYA  !   measure  not  with  words 
Th'  Immeasurable  ;  nor  sink  the  string  of  thought 
Into  the  Fathomless.    Who  asks  doth  err, 
Who  answers,  errs.    Say  nought ! 

The  Books  teach  Darkness  was,  at  first  of  all, 

And  Brahm,  sole  meditating  in  that  Night : 

Look  not  for  Brahm  and  the  Beginning  there  ! 
Nor  him,  nor  any  light 

Shall  any  gazer  see  with  mortal  eyes, 

Or  any  searcher  know  by  mortal  mind  ; 

Veil  after  veil  will  lift — but  there  must  be 
Veil  upon  veil  behind. 

Stars  sweep  and  question  not.    This  is  enough 
That  life  and  death  and  joy  and  woe  abide  ; 

And  cause  and  sequence,  and  the  course  of  time, 
And  Being's  ceaseless  tide, 


SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD  267 

Which,  ever  changing,  runs,  linked  like  a  river 
By  ripples  following  ripples,  fast  or  slow — 

The  same  yet  not  the  same — from  far-off  fountain 
To  where  its  waters  flow 

Into  the  seas.    These,  steaming  to  the  Sun, 
Give  the  lost  wavelets  back  in  cloudy  fleece 

To  trickle  down  the  hills,  and  glide  again  ; 
Having  no  pause  or  peace. 

This  is  enough  to  know,  the  phantasms  are  ; 

The  Heavens,  Earths,  Worlds,  and  changes  changing 

them, 
A  mighty  whirling  wheel  of  strife  and  stress 

Which  none  can  stay  or  stem.  .  .  . 

If  ye  lay  bound  upon  the  wheel  of  change, 

And  no  way  were  of  breaking  from  the  chain, 

The  Heart  of  boundless  Being  is  a  curse, 
The  Soul  of  Things  fell  Pain. 

Ye  are  not  bound  !    the  Soul  of  Things  is  sweet, 

The  Heart  of  Being  is  celestial  rest ; 
Stronger  than  woe  is  will :  that  which  was  Good 

Doth  pass  to  Better — Best. 

I,  Buddh,  who  wept  with  all  my  brothers'  tears, 

Whose  heart  was  broken  by  a  whole  world's  woe, 

Laugh  and  am  glad,  for  there  is  Liberty  ! 
Ho  !   ye  who  suffer  !   know 

Ye  suffer  from  yourselves.    None  else  compels, 
None  other  holds  you  that  ye  live  and  die, 

And  whirl  upon  the  wheel,  and  hug  and  kiss 
Its  spokes  of  agony, 


268 


SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD 


Its  tire  of  tears,  its  nave  of  nothingness. 

Behold,  I  show  you  Truth  !    Lower  than  hell, 
Higher  than  Heaven,  outside  the  utmost  stars, 

Farther  than  Brahm  doth  dwell, 

Before  beginning,  and  without  an  end, 

As  space  eternal  and  as  surety  sure, 
Is  fixed  a  Power  divine  which  moves  to  good, 

Only  its  laws  endure.  .  .  . 

That  which  ye  sow  ye  reap.    See  yonder  fields  ! 

The  sesamum  was  sesamum,  the  corn 
Was  corn.    The  Silence  and  the  Darkness  knew  ! 

So  is  a  man's  fate  born.  .  .  . 

If  he  shall  day  by  day  dwell  merciful, 

Holy  and  just  and  kind  and  true  ;  and  rend 

Desire  from  where  it  clings  with  bleeding  roots, 
Till  love  of  life  have  end  : 

He — dying — leaveth  as  the  sum  of  him 

A  life-count  closed,  whose  ills  are  dead  and  quit, 
Whose  good  is  quick  and  mighty,  far  and  near, 

So  that  fruits  follow  it. 

No  need  hath  such  to  live  as  ye  name  life  : 
That  which  began  in  him  when  he  began 

Is  finished  :  he  hath  wrought  the  purpose  through 
Of  what  did  make  him  Man. 

Never  shall  yearnings  torture  him,  nor  sins 

Stain  him,  nor  ache  of  earthly  joys  and  woes 

Invade  his  safe  eternal  peace  ;  nor  deaths 
And  lives  recur.    He  goes 


SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD  269 

Unto  NIRVANA.    He  is  one  with  Life, 

Yet  lives  not.    He  is  blest,  ceasing  to  be. 

OM,  MANI  PADME,  OM  !  the  Dewdrop  slips 
Into  the  shining  sea  !  .  .  . 

AH  !   BLESSED  LORD  !   OH,  HIGH  DELIVERER  ! 
FORGIVE  THIS  FEEBLE  SCRIPT,  WHICH  DOTH  THEE  WRONG, 
MEASURING  WITH  LITTLE  WIT  THY  LOFTY  LOVE. 
AH  !   LOVER  !   BROTHER  !   GUIDE  !   LAMP  OF  THE  LAW  ! 
I  TAKE  MY  REFUGE  IN  THY  NAME  AND  THEE  ! 
I  TAKE  MY  REFUGE  IN  THY  LAW  OF  GOOD  ! 

I  TAKE  MY  REFUGE  IN  THY  ORDER  !     OM  \ 

THE  DEW  is  ON  THE  LOTUS  ! — RISE,  GREAT  SUN  ! 

AND  LIFT  MY  LEAF  AND  MIX  ME  WITH  THE  WAVE. 
OM  MANI  PADME  HUM,  THE  SUNRISE  COMES  ! 

THE  DEWDROP  SLIPS  INTO  THE  SHINING  SEA  ! 


SIR  LEWIS  MORRIS 

1833-1907 
A  Heathen  Hymn 

OLORD,  the  Giver  of  my  days, 
My  heart  is  ready,  my  heart  is  ready  ; 
I  dare  not  hold  my  peace,  nor  pause, 
For  I  am  fain  to  sing  Thy  praise. 

I  praise  Thee  'not,  with  impious  pride, 
For  that  Thy  partial  hand  has  given 
Bounties  of  wealth  or  form  or  brain, 
Good  gifts  to  other  men  denied. 

Nor  weary  Thee  with  blind  request, 
For  fancied  goods  Thy  hand  withholds ; 
I  know  not  what  to  fear  or  hope, 
Nor  aught  but  that  Thy  will  is  best. 


270  SIR  LEWIS  MORRIS 

Not  whence  I  come,  nor  whither  I  go, 
Nor  wherefore  I  am  here,  I  know  ; 
Nor  if  my  life's  tale  ends  on  earth, 
Or  mounts  to  bliss,  or  sinks  to  woe. 

Nor  know  I  aught  of  Thee,  O  Lord  ; 
Behind  the  veil  Thy  face  is  hidden  : 
We  faint,  and  yet  Thy  face  is  hidden ; 
We  cry, — Thou  answerest  not  a  word. 

But  this  I  know,  O  Lord,  Thou  art, 
And  by  Thee  I  too  live  and  am  ; 
We  stand  together,  face  to  face, 
Thou  the  great  whole,  and  I  the  part. 

We  stand  together,  soul  to  soul, 
Alone  amidst  Thy  waste  of  worlds ; 
Unchanged,  though  all  creation  fade, 
And  Thy  swift  suns  forget  to  roll. 

Wherefore,  because  my  life  is  Thine, 
Because,  without  Thee  I  were  not ; 
Because,  as  doth  the  sea,  the  sun, 
My  nature  gives  back  the  Divine. 

Because  my  being  with  ceaseless  flow 
Sets  to  Thee  as  the  brook  to  the  sea  ; 
Turns  to  Thee,  as  the  flower  to  the  sun, 
And  seeks  what  it  may  never  know. 

Because,  without  me  Thou  hadst  been 
For  ever,  seated  midst  Thy  suns ; 
Marking  the  soulless  cycles  turn, 
Yet  wert  Thyself  unknown,  unseen. 


SIR  LEWIS  MORRIS  271 

I  praise  Thee,  everlasting  Lord, 
In  life  and  death,  in  heaven  and  hell : 
What  care  I,  since  indeed  Thou  art, 
And  I  the  creature  of  Thy  word. 

Only  if  such  a  thing  may  be  : 
When  all  Thy  infinite  will  is  done, 
Take  back  the  soul  Thy  breath  has  given, 
And  let  me  lose  myself  in  Thee. 


A  New  Orphic  Hymn 

THE  peaks,  and  the  starlit  skies,  the  deeps  of  the 
fathomless  seas, 
Immanent  is  He  in  all,  yet  higher  and  deeper  than  these. 

The  heart,  and  the  mind,  and  the  soul,  the  thoughts  and 

the  yearnings  of  Man, 
Of  His  essence  are  one  and  all,  and  yet  define  it  who  can  ? 

The  love  of  the  Right,  tho'  cast  down,  the  hate  of  vic 
torious  111, 

All  are  sparks  from  the  central  fire  of  a  boundless  bene 
ficent  Will. 

Oh,  mystical  secrets  of  Nature,  great  Universe  undefined, 
Ye  are  part  of  the  infinite  work  of  a  mighty  ineffable  Mind. 

Beyond  your  limitless  Space,  before  your  measureless  Time, 
Ere  Life  or  Death  began  was  this  changeless  Essence 
sublime. 

In  the  core  of  eternal  calm  He  dwelleth  unmoved  and 

alone 
'Mid  the  Universe  He  has  made,  as  a  monarch  upon  his 

throne. 


272 


SIR  LEWIS  MORRIS 


And  the  self-same  inscrutable  Power  which'  fashioned 

the  sun  and  the  star 
Is  Lord  of  the  feeble  strength  of  the  humblest  creatures 

that  are. 

The  weak  things  that  float  or  creep  for  their  little  life 

of  a  day, 
The  weak  souls  that  falter  and  faint,  as  feeble  and  futile 

as  they ; 

The  malefic  invisible  atoms  unmarked  by  man's  purblind 

eye 
That  beleaguer  our  House  of  Life,  and  compass  us  till 

we  die ; 

All  these  are  parts  of  Him,  the  indivisible  One, 
Who  supports  and  illumines  the  many,  Creation's  Pillar 
and  Sun ! 

Yea,  and  far  in  the  depths  of  Being,  too  dark  for  a  mortal 

brain, 
Lurk  His  secrets  of  Evil  and  Wrong,  His  creatures  of 

Death  and  of  Pain. 

A  viewless  Necessity  binds,  a  determinate  Impetus  drives 
To  a  hidden  invisible  goal  the  freightage  of  numberlesslives. 

The  waste,  and  the  pain,  and  the  wrong,  the  abysmal 

mysteries  dim, 
Come  not  of  themselves  alone,  but  are  seed  and  issue  of  Him. 

And  Man's  spirit  that  spends  and  is  spent  in  mystical 

questionings, 
Oh,  the  depths  of  the  fathomless  deep,  oh,  the  riddle  and 

secret  of  things, 
And  the  voice  through  the  darkness  heard,  and  the  rush 

of  winnowing  wings ! 


w 


m 


RICHARD  WATSON  DIXON 

1833-1900 
Rapture:    sin  Ode 

HAT  is  this  ? 

The  white  and  crumbling  clouds  leave  bare  the  blue ; 
Shines  out  the  central  sun  with  golden  hue  ; 
And  all  the  fruit-trees,  rolling  blossom-boughed, 
Are  white  and  billowy  as  the  rolling  cloud. 
The  warm  beam  bedded  sleeps  upon  the  trees, 
The  springing  thickets  and  the  gorse-bound  leas  ; 
Sleeps  where  I  lie  at  ease, 
Pulling  the  ruby  orchis  and  the  pale 
Half-withered  cowslip  from  the  hill-side  grass, 
Midway  the  brow  that  overhangs  the  vale, 
Where  the  sleepy  shadows  pass, 
And  the  sunbeam  sleeps  till  all  is  grown 
Into  one  burning  sapphire  stone, 
All  air,  all  earth,  each  violet-deepened  zone. 

,. 

It  sleeps  and  broods  upon  the  moss-mapped  stone, 

The  thready  mosses  and  the  plumy  weeds ; 

Numbers  the  veined  flowers  one  after  one, 

Their  colours  and  their  leaves  and  ripening  seeds : 

Above,  around,  its  influence  proceeds ; 

It  tracks  in  gleams  the  stream  through  crowding  bush, 

And  beds  of  sworded  flags  and  bearded  rush, 

Where  slow  it  creeps  along  the  lower  ground  ; 

The  ridges  far  above  are  all  embrowned, 

The  golden  heavens  over  all  are  ploughed 

In  furrows  of  fine  tissue  that  abound, 

And  melting  fragments  of  the  whitest  cloud. 


274  RICHARD  WATSON  DIXON 

in 

Ah,  what  is  this,  that  now  with  sated  eyes 
And  humming  ears  the  soul  no  more  descries  ? 
Drawn  back  upon  the  spirit  all  the  sense 
Becomes  intelligence  ; 
And  to  be  doubly  now  unfolded  feels 
That  which  itself  reveals ; 
Double  the  world  of  all  that  may  appear 
To  eye  or  hand  or  ear  ; 
Double  the  soul  of  that  which  apprehends 
By  that  which  sense  transcends. 

IV 

For  deep  the  cave  of  human  consciousness ; 

The  thoughts,  like  light,  upon  its  depths  may  press, 

Seeking  and  finding  wonders  numberless ; 

But  never  may  they  altogether  pierce 

The  hollow  gloom  so  sensitive  and  fierce 

Of  the  deep  bosom  :  far  the  light  may  reach, 

There  is  a  depth  unreached  ;  in  clearest  speech 

There  is  an  echo  from  an  unknown  place  : 

And  in  the  dim,  unknown,  untrodden  space 

Our  life  is  hidden  ;  were  we  all  self-known, 

No  longer  should  we  live  ;  a  wonder  shown 

Is  wonderful  no  'more  ;   and  being  flies 

For  ever  from  its  own  self-scrutinies. 

Here  is  the  very  effort  of  the  soul 

To  keep  itself  unmingled,  safe,  and  whole 

In  changes  and  the  flitting  feints  of  sense  : 

Here  essence  holds  a  calm  and  sure  defence  ; 

It  is  a  guarded  shrine  and  sacred  grove, 

A  fountain  hidden  where  no  foot  may  rove, 

A  further  depth  within  a  sounded  sea  ; 

A  mirror  'tis  from  hour  to  hour  left  free 


RICHARD  WATSON  DIXON  275 

By  things  reflected  :  and  because  'tis  so, 

Therefore  the  outer  world  and  all  its  show 

Is  as  the  music  of  the  upper  wave 

To  the  deep  Ocean  in  his  sunken  cave  ; 

A  part  of  its  own  self,  yet  but  its  play, 

Which  doth  the  sunbeam  and  the  cloud  convey 

To  central  deeps,  where  in  awful  shade 

The  stormless  heart  receives  the  things  conveyed, 

Knowing  the  cloud  by  darkness,  and  the  light 

By  splendours  dying  through  the  infinite. 


And  being  such  the  soul  doth  recognize 

The  doubleness  of  nature,  that  there  lies 

A  soul  occult  in  Nature,  hidden  deep 

As  lies  the  soul  of  man  in  moveless  sleep. 

And  like  a  dream 

Broken  in  circumstance  and  foolish  made, 

Through  which  howe'er  the  future  world  doth  gleam, 

And  floats  a  warning  to  the  gathered  thought, 

Like  to  a  dream, 

Through  sense  and  all  by  sense  conveyed, 

Into  our  soul  the  shadow  of  that  soul 

Doth  float. 

Then  are  we  lifted  up  erect  and  whole 

In  vast  confession  to  that  universe 

Perceived  by  us :  our  soul  itself  transfers 

Thither  by  instinct  sure  ;  it  swiftly  hails 

The  mighty  spirit  similar  ;  it  sails 

In  the  divine  expansion  ;  it  perceives 

Tendencies  glorious,  distant ;  it  enweaves 

Itself  with  excitations  more  than  thought 

Unto  that  soul  unveiled  and  yet  unsought. 


276  RICHARD  WATSON  DIXON 


VI 

Ye  winds  and  clouds  of  light, 
Ye  lead  the  soul  to  God  ; 

The  new-born  soul  that  height 

With  rapturous  foot  hath  trod, 

And  is  received  of  God  : 

God  doth  the  soul  receive 

Which  mounts  toward  Him,  and  alone  would  dwell 
With  Him  ;  though  finite  with  the  Infinite, 
Though  finite,  rising  with  a  might 
Like  to  infinitude. 

Gently  receiving  such  He  doth  dispel 
All  solitary  horror  with  delight, 
Honouring  the  higher  mood. 


VII 

For  though  the  soul  pants  with  fierce  ecstasy 

The  unattainable  to  grasp,  to  be 

For  ever  mingled  with  infinity ; 

And  this  in  vain,  since  God  Himself  withdraws 

From  human  knowledge,  e'en  as  its  own  laws 

Seclude  the  soul  from  sense  ; 

Yet  not  from  love  He  hies  ; 

From  love  God  never  flies. 

Love  is  the  soul's  best  sense,  which  God  descries, 

Which  bares  the  covert  of  intelligence  : 

And,  honouring  in  love  the  higher  mood, 

With  lovely  joys  He  fills  the  solitude 

Of  His  own  presence,  whither  trusting  Him 

The  soul  hath  mounted  :  lo,  it  might  have  found 

Utter  destruction  on  this  higher  ground, 

Tenuity  of  air  and  swooning  dim 


RICHARD  WATSON  DIXON  277 

For  lack  of  breath  ;  but  now  it  finds  hereby 

A  lovely  vesture  of  infinity, 

And  ecstasies  that  nourish  ecstasy. 

God  giveth  love  to  love,  and  ministers 

Substance  to  substance  ;  life  to  life  He  bears. 


VIII 

Therefore,  ye  winds  and  ye 
High  moving  clouds  of  light, 

Ye  rivers  running  free, 

Thou  glory  of  the  sea, 
Thou  glory  of  the  height, 

The  gleam  beside  the  bush, 

The  tremble  of  the  rush, 
To  me  made  manifest, 

The  beauty  of  the  flower 

In  summer's  sunny  power, 
Portions  of  entity  supreme  ye  be, 
And  motions  massed  upon  eternal  rest. 


IX 

Broad  breezes,  clouds  of  light, 
Thither  ye  lead  the  soul, 

To  this  most  sacred  height 
Above  the  sacred  whole  : 
The  azure  world  is  not  so  fair, 
The  azure  world  and  all  the  circling  air, 
As  that  true  spiritual  kingdom  known 
Unto  the  spirit  only  and  alone  ; 

Thither  the  soul  ye  bear, 

Oh  winds  and  clouds  of  light. 


2/8 


RICHARD  WATSON  DIXON 


Ye  winds  and  clouds  of  light, 
That  bear  the  soul  to  God  ; 

The  new-born  soul  that  height 
By  ecstasy  hath  trod. 


RODEN  BERKELEY  WRIOTHESLEY  NOEL 

1834-1894 
From  'Pan' 

A  I !  Nature,  would  that  I  before  I  pass 
Might  thrill  with  joy  of  thy  communion 
One  childlife  only  knowing  thee  from  far  ! 
Love  we  may  well,  for  surely  one  were  nought 
Without  the  other,  intermarrying  breath  ; 
Nature  the  systole,  thought  the  diastole 
Of  one  Divine  forever-beating  Heart. 
Feeding  from  her  maternal  breast  we  grow 
Full  to  our  height  of  stately  dominance, 
And  yet  create,  yea  dower  as  we  grow 
Her  with  all  colour,  form  and  comeliness. 
Nature  the  heaving  of  a  tender  breast 
Revealing  inspiration  from  within, 
Sweet  rending  of  a  calyx,  telling  clear 
Expansion  of  the  spirit's  folded  flower, 
Nature  the  lake  where  looking  long  we  fall 
With  our  own  likeness  tremulous  in  love. 


And  shall  we  climb,  ascension  infinite, 
From  star  to  star  ?  explore  from  world  to  world — 
Gods  reigning  yonder  in  the  tranquil  stars  ? 
Death  !  what  is  Death  ?  a  turning-point  of  Life 


RODEN  BERKELEY  WRIOTHESLEY  NOEL      279 

Winding  so  sharp  the  way  dips  out  of  sight, 
Seeming  to  end,  yet  winding  on  for  ever 
Through  teeming  glories  of  the  Infinite. 
Look  with  bold  eyes  unquailing  in  the  face 
Of  that  foul  haunting  phantom,  it  will  fade, 
Melt  to  the  face  of  some  familiar  friend.  .  .  .l 

One  selfsame  Spirit  breathing  evermore 
Rouses  in  each  the  momentary  wave, 
One  water  and  one  motion  and  one  wind, 
Now  feeble  undulation  myriadfold, 
Now  headlong  mountain  thunder-clothed  and  crowned 
With  foamy  lightning  ;  such  we  name  Zerduscht, 
Dante,  Spinoza,  or  Napoleon — 
The  motion  travels,  and  the  wave  subsides.  .  .  .l 

May  cold  ascetic  hard,  ill-favoured,  crude, 
Ever  persuade  me  vision  and  fond  play 
Of  sense  about  fair  fleshly  loveliness 
Of  youth  in  man  or  woman  is  accurst — 
Since  God  hath  made  the  spirit,  but  a  fiend 
Hath  mocked  it  with  a  syren  phantom-flesh  ? — 
Nay,  to  mine  ear  'tis  rankest  blasphemy  ! 
For  is  not  flesh  the  shadow  of  the  soul, 
Her  younger  sister,  both  alike  Divine  ? 
Yea  verily  !  for  when  I  love  a  friend 
How  may  I  sunder  body  from  the  soul  ? 
Few  win  my  love,  but  they  who  win  it  seem 
Ever  well-favoured  to  me,  and  I  greet 
All  comeliness  of  colour  and  of  form, 
Mere  side  reverse  of  spiritual  grace. 
Yea,  limbs  well  turned  and  bodies  almond-smooth 
Full  fair  and  white  in  maiden  or  in  youth, 
With  what  sense-thrillings  may  attend  on  these ; 

1  These  dots  are  the  author's,  and  do  not  mark  omissions. 


280    RODEN  BERKELEY  WRIOTHESLEY  NOEL 

All  lusty  might  of  supple  athletic  men  ; 
Are  surely  worthy  reverence  like  flowers, 
Or  like  the  culminating  heart  and  soul. 
Only  to  each  one  yield  his  very  own  : 
Yield  to  young  sense  his  toy  of  fantasy, 
And  never  frown  until  he  glides  to  steal 
The  royal  sceptre  from  Intelligence, 
Or  crown  of  light  from  spiritual  Love. 
Nor  dare  to  maim  lives  infinite  Divine 
Seeking  to  graft  one  pale  monotonous  flower  ; 
For  is  not  Being  thirsting  to  exhaust 
His  all  exhaustless  capability  ? 
Evil  mere  vantage-ground  for  an  advance, 
If  not  for  thee,  yet  for  the  universe, 
And  so  for  thee  as  member  of  the  whole. 


From  '  De  Profundis'* 

THE  spirit  grows  the  form  for  self-expression, 
And  for  a  hall  where  she  may  hold  high  session 
With  sister  souls,  who,  allied  with  her,  create 
Her  fair  companion,  her  espoused  mate. 
Ever  the  hidden  Person  will  remould 
For  all  our  lives  fresh  organs  manifold, 
Gross  for  the  earthly,  for  the  heavenly  fine, 
Ethereal  woof,  wherein  their  graces  shine. 
And  there  be  secret  avenues,  with  doors 
Yielding  access  to  inmost  chamber  floors 
Of  the  soul's  privacy  ;  all  varying  frames, 
Responsive  to  the  several  spirit-flames. 
The  vital  form  our  lost  now  animate 
Is  one  with  what  in  their  low  mortal  state 
They  made  their  own  ;  the  corse  mere  ashes,  waste, 


RODEN  BERKELEY  WRIOTHESLEY  NOEL    281 

For  all  grand  uses  of  the  world  replaced. 
A  larva  needs  no  more  the  unliving  husk, 
When  soaring  winged  he  rends  the  dwelling  dusk. 

A  rabble  rout  of  Sense  light-headed  pours 
Into  the  holy  Spirit-temple  doors, 
Where  many  a  grave  and  stately  minister 
His  place  and  function  doth  on  each  confer. 
These  Forms  inhabiting  the  sacred  gloom, 
Whose  name  is  legion,  Present,  Past,  To  Come, 
One,  Many,  Same,  or  Different,  evolve 
Sweet  concord  from  confusion  ;  they  resolve 
The  Babel  dissonance  to  a  choral  song, 
Till  in  divine  societies  a  throng 
Sets  with  one  will  toward  the  inmost  shrine, 
To  feed  there  upon  mystic  Bread  and  Wine. 
The  Bacchanals  are  sobered,  and  grow  grave, 
In  solemn  silence  treading  the  dim  nave  : 
On  their  light  hearts  bloom-pinioned  angels  lay 
Calm,  hushful  hands  of  married  night  and  day. 

It  is  a  changing  scene  within  the  pile  : 
New  shows  arrive,  and  tarry  for  a  while  : 
But  if  one  living  Spirit-fane  could  fall, 
His  ruin  were  the  knell  of  doom  for  all. 
Their  being  blended  each  with  every  one,  .    . 

If  any  failed,  the  universe  were  gone. 
These  conscious  forms  inhabit  every  mind  ; 
All  selves  in  one  organic  self  they  bind ; 
The  bloomy  beams,  and  all  the  shadowy  blooms 
Are  pure  white  Light  eternal  that  illumes 
A  universal  conscious  Spirit-whole, 
Fair  modulated  in  each  several  soul 
To  many-functioned  organs  of  one  Will, 
Whose  sovran  Being  who  prevails  to  kill  ? 


282    RODEN  BERKELEY  WRIOTHESLEY  NOEL 

We  may  expand  our  being  to  embrace, 

And  mirror  all  therein  of  every  race  ; 

Each  is  himself  by  universal  grace. 

Dying  is  self-fulfilment ;   and  we  cherish 

His  life,  who,  wanting  ours,  would  wholly  perish. 

The  Father  may  not  be  without  the  Son  ; 

No  love,  will,  knowledge,  were  for  Him  alone. 

And  change  is  naught 

Save  at  the  bar  of  a  sole  personal  thought, 

Enthroned  for  judgement,  summoning  past  time 

With  present,  hearing  now  concordant  rhyme, 

Now  variance  among  voices  vanishing, 

That  so  win  semblance  of  substantial  thing. 

But  how  conceive  that  there  may  ever  be 

Change  in  the  nerve  of  change,  our  known  identity  ? 

If  we,  poor  worms,  involved  in  our  own  cloud, 
Deem  the  wide  world  lies  darkling  in  a  shroud, 
Raving  the  earth  holds  no  felicity, 
One  child's  clear  laughter  may  rebuke  the  lie, 
A  lark's  light  rapture  soaring  in  the  blue, 
Or  rainbow  radiant  from  a  drop  of  dew  ! 

Nor  let  a  low-born  Sense  usurp  the  rule, 
Who  is  but  handmaid  in  a  loftier  school, 
Where  Love  and  Conscience  a  lore  not  of  earth 
Impart  to  Wisdom,  child  of  heavenly  birth. 

0  Thou  unknown,  inscrutable  Divine  ! 

1  deem  that  I  am  Thine,  and  Thou  art  mine  ; 
And  though  I  may  not  gaze  into  Thy  face, 

I  feel  that  all  are  clasped  in  Thine  embrace. 
The  Christ  is  with  us,  and  He  points  to  Thee  : 
When  we  have  grown  into  Him  we  shall  see  ; 
Behold  the  Father  in  the  perfect  Son, 
And  feel,  with  Him,  Thy  holy  will  be  done  ! 


RODEN  BERKELEY  WRIOTHESLEY  NOEL    283 

Love  may  not  compass  her  full  harmony, 
Wanting  the  deep  dread  note  of  those  who  die. 
And  as  with  master-hand  He  sweeps  the  grand  awakening 

chords, 

Our  wailing  sighs  leap  winged,  live  talismanic  words, 
Dull  woes  and  errors  tempered  to  seraphic  swords, 
Love's  colour-chorus  flames  with  glorious  morning-red, 
His  alchemy  transmuting  the  poured  heart's  blood  of 

our  dead, 
And  lurid  bale  from  murderous  eyes  of  souls  who  inly 

bled! 

Whose  mortal  mind  may  sail  around  the  ocean  of  Thy 

might, 

Billowing  away  in  awful  gloom  to  issues  infinite  ? 
Bind  Thee  with  his  poor  girdle?    Surveying  all  thy  shore ! 
His  daring  sinks  confounded,  foundering  evermore, 
In  his  dazed  ear  reverberating  a  tempestuous  roar  ! 
. . .  Who  sounds  the  abyss  of  Thine  immense  design  ?  We 

rest, 
Aware  that  Thou  art  better  than  our  best. 


SIR  ALFRED  COMYN  LYALL 

1835-1911 


i 


From  '  Siva ' 

'  Mors  Janua  Vitae.' 
AM  the  God  of  the  sensuous  fire 


That  moulds  all  Nature  in  forms  divine ; 
The  symbols  of  death  and  of  man's  desire, 

The  springs  of  change  in  the  world,  are  mine  ; 
The  organs  of  birth  and  the  circlet  of  bones, 
And  the  light  loves  carved  on  the  temple  stones. 


284     SIR  ALFRED  COMYN  LYALL 

I  am  the  lord  of  delights  and  pain, 

Of  the  pest  that  killeth,  of  fruitful  joys  ; 

I  rule  the  currents  of  heart  and  vein ; 
A  touch  gives  passion,  a  look  destroys ; 

In  the  heat  and  cold  of  my  lightest  breath 

Is  the  might  incarnate  of  Lust  and  Death. 

If  a  thousand  altars  stream  with  blood 

Of -the  victims  slain  by  the  chanting  priest, 

Is  a  great  God  lured  by  the  savoury  food  ? 
I  reck  not  of  worship,  or  song,  or  feast ; 

But  that  millions  perish,  each  hour  that  flies, 

Is  the  mystic  sign  of  my  sacrifice. 

Ye  may  plead  and  pray  for  the  millions  born  ; 

They  come  like  dew  on  the  morning  grass ; 
Your  vows  and  vigils  I  hold  in  scorn, 

The  soul  stays  never,  the  stages  pass ; 
All  life  is  the  play  of  the  power  that  stirs 
In  the  dance  of  my  wanton  worshippers. 

And  the  strong  swift  river  my  shrine  below 
It  runs,  like  man,  its  unending  course 

To  the  boundless  sea  from  eternal  snow ; 
Mine  is  the  Fountain — and  mine  the  Force 

That  spurs  all  nature  to  ceaseless  strife  ; 

And  my  image  is  Death  at  the  gates  of  Life. 

In  many  a  legend  and  many  a  shape, 

In  the  solemn  grove  and  the  crowded  street, 

I  am  the  Slayer,  whom  none  escape  ; 
I  am  Death  trod  under  a  fair  girl's  feet ; 

I  govern  the  tides  of  the  sentient  sea 

That  ebbs  and  flows  to  eternitv. 


SIR  ALFRED  COMYN  LYALL  285 

And  the  sum  of  the  thought  and  the  knowledge  of  man 
Is  the  secret  tale  that  my  emblems  tell ; 

Do  ye  seek  God's  purpose,  or  trace  his  plan  ? 
Ye  may  read  your  doom  in  my  parable  : 

For  the  circle  of  life  in  its  flower  and  its  fall 

Is  the  writing  that  runs  on  my  temple  wall.  .  .  . 

Let  my  temples  fall,  they  are  dark  with  age, 
Let  my  idols  break,  they  have  stood  their  day ; 

On  their  deep  hewn  stones  the  primeval  sage 
Has  figured  the  spells  that  endure  alway  ; 

My  presence  may  vanish  from  river  and  grove, 

But  I  rule  for  ever  in  Death  and  Love. 


FRANCES  RIDLEY  HAVERGAL 

1836-1879 
From  '  The  Thoughts  of  God* 

THEY  say  there  is  a  hollow,  safe  and  still, 
A  point  of  coolness  and  repose 

Within  the  centre  of  a  flame,  where  life  might  dwell 
Unharmed  and  unconsumed,  as  in  a  luminous  shell. 

Which  the  bright  walls  of  fire  enclose 
In  breachless  splendour,  barrier  that  no  foes 
Could  pass  at  will. 

There  is  a  point  of  rest 
At  the  great  centre  of  the  cyclone's  force, 

A  silence  at  its  secret  source  ; — 
A  little  child  might  slumber  undistressed, 
Without  the  ruffle  of  one  fairy  curl, 
In  that  strange  central  calm  amid  the  mighty  whirl. 


286  FRANCES  RIDLEY  HAVERGAL 

So  in  the  centre  of  these  thoughts  of  God, 
Cyclones  of  power,  consuming  glory-fire, — 

As  we  fall  o'erawed 
Upon  our  faces,  and  are  lifted  higher 
By  His  great  gentleness,  and  carried  nigher 
Than  unredeemed  angels,  till  we  stand 

Even  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand, — 

Nay  more  !   we  lean  upon  His  breast — 
There,  there  we  find  a  point  of  perfect  rest 

And  glorious  safety.     There  we  see 

His  thoughts  to  us-ward,  thoughts  of  peace 
That  stoop  to  tenderest  love  ;   that  still  increase 
With  increase  of  our  need  ;   that  never  change, 
That  never  fail,  or  falter,  or  forget. 
O  pity  infinite  ! 
O  royal  mercy  free  ! 

O  gentle  climax  of  the  depth  and  height 
Of  God's  most  precious  thoughts,  most  wonderful,  most 
strange  ! 

*  For  I  am  poor  and  needy,  yet 
The  Lord  Himself,  Jehovah,  thinketh  upon  me  I '  i 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

1837-1909 
Hertha 

1AM  that  which  began  ; 
Out  of  me  the  years  roll ; 
Out  of  me  God  and  man  ; 
I  am  equal  and  whole  ; 

God  changes,  and  man,  and  the  form  of  them  bodily ; 
I  am  the  soul. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE       287 

Before  ever  land  was, 
Before  ever  the  sea, 
Or  soft  hair  of  the  grass, 

Or  fair  limbs  of  the  tree, 

Or  the  flesh-coloured  fruit  of  my  branches,  I  was,  and 
thy  soul  was  in  me. 

First  life  on  my  sources 

First  drifted  and  swam  ; 
Out  of  me  are  the  forces 
That  save  it  or  damn  ; 

Out  of  me  man  and  woman,  and  wild-beast  and  bird  : 
before  God  was,  I  am. 

Beside  or  above  me 

Naught  is  there  to  go  ; 
Love  or  unlove  me, 

Unknow  me  or  know, 

I  am  that  which  unloves  me  and  loves ;    I  am  stricken, 
and  I  am  the  blow. 

I  the  mark  that  is  missed 

And  the  arrows  that  miss, 
I  the  mouth  that  is  kissed 

And  the  breath  in  the  kiss, 

The  search,  and  the  sought,  and  the  seeker,  the  soul  and 
the  body  that  is. 

I  am  that  thing  which  blesses 

My  spirit  elate  ; 
That  which  caresses 

With  hands  uncreate 

My  limbs  unbegotten  that  measure  the  length  of  the 
measure  of  fate. 


288       ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

But  what  thing  dost  thou  now, 

Looking  Godward,  to  cry 
'  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou, 

I  am  low,  thou  art  high  '  ? 
I  am  thou,  whom  thou  seekest  to  find  him  ;  find  thou  but 
thyself,  thou  art  I. 

I  the  grain  and  the  furrow, 

The  plough-cloven  clod 
And  the  ploughshare  drawn  thorough, 

The  germ  and  the  sod, 
The  deed  and  the  doer,  the  seed  and  the  sower,  the  dust 
which  is  God. 

Hast  thou  known  how  I  fashioned  thee, 

.Child,  underground  ? 
Fire  that  impassioned  thee, 

Iron  that  bound, 

Dim  changes  of  water,  what  thing  of  all  these  hast  thou 
known  of  or  found  ? 

Canst  thou  say  in  thine  heart 

Thou  hast  seen  with  thine  eyes 
With  what  cunning  of  art 

Thou  wast  wrought  in  what  wise, 

By  what  force  of  what  stuff  thou  wast  shapen,  and  shown 
on  my  breast  to  the  skies  ? 

Who  hath  given,  who  hath  sold  it  thee, 

Knowledge  of  me  ? 
Hath  the  wilderness  told  it  thee  ? 

Hast  thou  learnt  of  the  sea  ? 

Hast  thou  communed  in  spirit  with  night  ?    have  the 
winds  taken  counsel  with  thee  ? 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE      289 

Have  I  set  such  a  star 

To  show  light  on  thy  brow 
That  thou  sawest  from  afar 

What  I  show  to  thee  now  ? 

Have  ye  spoken  as  brethren  together,  the  sun  and  the 
mountains  and  thou  ? 

What  is  here,  dost  thou  know  it  ? 

What  was,  hast  thou  known  ? 
Prophet  nor  poet 

Nor  tripod  nor  throne 

Nor   spirit  nor  flesh  can  make   answer,   but  only  thy 
mother^  alone. 

Mother,  not  maker, 

Born,  and  not  made  ; 
Though  her  children  forsake  her, 

Allured  or  afraid, 

Praying  prayers  to  the  God  of  their  fashion,  she  stirs  not 
for  all  that  have  prayed. 

A  creed  is  a  rod, 

And  a  crown  is  of  night ; 
But  this  thing  is  God, 

To  be  man  with  thy  might, 

To  grow  straight  in  the  strength  of  thy  spirit,  and  live 
out  thy  life  as  the  light. 

I  am  in  thee  to  save  thee, 
As  my  soul  in  thee  saith, 
Give  thou  as  I  gave  thee, 

Thy  life-blood  and  breath, 

Green  leaves  of  thy  labour,  white  flowers  of  thy  thought, 
and  red  fruit  of  thy  death. 


290      ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Be  the  ways  of  thy  giving 

As  mine  were  to  thee  ; 

The  free  life  of  thy  living, 

Be  the  gift  of  it  free ; 

Not  as  servant  to  lord,  nor  as  master  to  slave,  shalt  thou 
give  thee  to  me. 

0  children  of  banishment, 
Souls  overcast, 

Were  the  lights  ye  see  vanish  meant 

Alway  to  last, 

Ye  would  know  not  the  sun  overshining  the  shadows  and 
stars  overpast. 

1  that  saw  where  ye  trod 
The  dim  paths  of  the  night 

Set  the  shadow  called  God 

In  your  skies  to  give  light ; 

But  the  morning  of  manhood  is  risen,  and  the  shadowless 
soul  is  in  sight. 

The  tree  many-rooted 

That  swells  to  the  sky 
With  frondage  red-fruited, 

The  life-tree  am  I ; 

In  the  buds  of  your  lives  is  the  sap  of  my  leaves  :  ye  shall 
live  and  not  die. 

But  the  Gods  of  your  fashion 

That  take  and  that  give, 
In  their  pity  and  passion 

That  scourge  and  forgive, 

They  are  worms  that  are  bred  in  the  bark  that  falls  off ; 
they  shall  die  and  not  live. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE      291 

My  own  blood  is  what  stanches 

The  wounds  in  my  bark  ; 
Stars  caught  in  my  branches 

Make  day  of  the  dark, 

And  are  worshipped  as  suns  till  the  sunrise  shall  tread  out 
their  fires  as  a  spark. 

Where  dead  ages  hide  under 
The  live  roots  of  the  tree, 
In  my  darkness  the  thunder 

Makes  utterance  of  me  ; 

In  the  clash  of  my  boughs  with  each  other  ye  hear  the 
waves  sound  of  the  sea. 

That  noise  is  of  Time, 

As  his  feathers  are  spread 
And  his  feet  set  to  climb 

Through  the  boughs  overhead, 

And  my  foliage  rings  round  him  and  rustles,  and  branches 
are  bent  with  his  tread. 

The  storm-winds  of  ages 

Blow  through  me  and  cease, 
The  war-wind  that  rages, 

The  spring-wind  of  peace, 

Ere  the  breath  of  them  roughen  my  tresses,  ere  one  of 
my  blossoms  increase. 

All  sounds  of  all  changes, 
All  shadows  and  lights 
On  the  world's  mountain-ranges 

And  stream-riven  heights, 

Whose  tongue  is  the  wind's  tongue  and  language  of 
storm-clouds  on  earth-shaking  nights  ; 


292   ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

All  forms  of  all  faces, 

All  works  of  all  hands 
In  unsearchable  places 

Of  time-stricken  lands, 

All  death  and  all  life,  and  all  reigns  and  all  ruins,  drop 
through  me  as  sands. 

Though  sore  be  my  burden 
And  more  than  ye  know, 
And  my  growth  have  no  guerdon 

But  only  to  grow, 

Yet   I  fail  not  of   growing  for  lightnings  above  me  or 
deathworms  below. 

These  too  have  their  part  in  me, 

As  I  too  in  these  ; 
Such  fire  is  at  heart  in  me, 

Such  sap  is  this  tree's, 

Which  hath  in  it  all  sounds  and  all  secrets  of  infinite  lands 
and  of  seas. 

In  the  spring-coloured  hours 

When  my  mind  was  as  May's, 
There  brake  forth  of  me  flowers 

By  centuries  of  days, 

Strong  blossoms  with  perfume  of  manhood,  shot  out 
from  my  spirit  as  rays. 

And  the  sound  of  them  springing 

And  smell  of  their  shoots 
Were  as  warmth  and  sweet  singing 

And  strength  to  my  roots ; 

And  the  lives  of  my  children  made  perfect  with  freedom 
of  soul  were  my  fruits. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE   293 

I  bid  you  but  be  ; 

I  have  need  not  of  prayer  ; 
I  have  need  of  you  free 

As  your  mouths  of  mine  air  ; 

That  my  heart  may  be  greater  within  me,  beholding  the 
fruits  of  me  fair. 

More  fair  than  strange  fruit  is 

Of  faiths  ye  espouse  ; 
In  me  only  the  root  is 

That  blooms  in  your  boughs  ; 

Behold  now  your  God  that  ye  made  you,  to  feed  him 
with  faith  of  your  vows. 

In  the  darkening  and  whitening 

Abysses  adored, 
With  dayspring  and  lightning 

For  lamp  and  for  sword, 

God  thunders  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are  red  with  the 
wrath  of  the  Lord. 

O  my  sons,  O  too  dutiful 

Toward  Gods  not  of  me, 
Was  not  I  enough  beautiful  ? 

Was  it  hard  to  be  free  ? 

For  behold,  I  am  with  you,  am  in  you  and  of  you  ;  look 
forth  now  and  see. 

Lo,  winged  with  world's  wonders, 

With  miracles  shod, 
With  the  fires  of  his  thunders 

For  raiment  and  rod, 

God  trembles  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are  white  with 
the  terror  of  God. 


294     ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

For  his  twilight  is  come  on  him, 

His  anguish  is  here  ; 
And  his  spirits  gaze  dumb  on  him, 

Grown  grey  from  his  fear  ; 

And  his  hour  taketh  hold  on  him  stricken,  the  last  of  his 
infinite  year. 

Thought  made  him  and  breaks  him, 

Truth  slays  and  forgives ; 
But  to  you,  as  time  takes  him, 

This  new  thing  it  gives, 

Even  love,  the  beloved  Republic,  that  feeds  upon  freedom 
and  lives. 

For  truth  only  is  living, 
Truth  only  is  whole, 
And  the  love  of  his  giving 

Man's  polestar  and  pole  ; 

Man,  pulse  of  my  centre,  and  fruit  of  my  body,  and  seed 
of  my  soul. 

One  birth  of  my  bosom  ; 

One  beam  of  mine  eye  ; 
One  topmost  blossom 
That  scales  the  sky ; 

Man,  equal  and  one  with  me,  man  that  is  made  of  me, 
man  that  is  I. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE      295 


A  Nympholept 

SUMMER,  and  noon,  and  a  splendour  of  silence,  felt, 
Seen,  and  heard  of  the  spirit  within  the  sense. 
Soft  through  the  frondage  the  shades  of  the  sunbeams 

melt, 
Sharp  through  the  foliage  the  shafts  of  them,  keen 

and  dense, 
Cleave,  as  discharged  from  the  string  of  the  God's 

bow,  tense 

As  a  war-steed's  girth,  and  bright  as  a  warrior's  belt. 
Ah,  why  should  an  hour  that  is  heaven  for  an  hour  pass 
hence  ? 


I  dare  not  sleep  for  delight  of  the  perfect  hour, 

Lest  God  be  wroth  that  his  gift  should  be  scorned  of 

man. 

The  face  of  the  warm  bright  world  is  the  face  of  a  flower, 
The  word  of  the  wind  and  the  leaves  that  the  light 

winds  fan 

As  the  word  that  quickened  at  first  into  flame,  and  ran, 
Creative  and  subtle  and  fierce  with  invasive  power, 
Through  darkness  and  cloud,  from  the  breath  of  the 
one  God,  Pan. 

The  perfume  of  earth  possessed  by  the  sun  pervades 
The  chaster  air  that  he  soothes  but  with  sense  of  sleep. 

Soft,  imminent,  strong  as  desire  that  prevails  and  fades, 
The  passing  noon  that  beholds  not  a  cloudlet  weep 
Imbues  and  impregnates  life  with  delight  more  deep 

Than  dawn  or  sunset  or  moonrise  on  lawns  or  glades 
Can  shed  from  the  skies  that  receive  it  and  may  not  keep. 


296     ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

The  skies  may  hold  not  the  splendour  of  sundown  fast ; 

It  wanes  into  twilight  as  dawn  dies  down  into  day. 
And  the  moon,  triumphant  when  twilight  is  overpast, 

Takes  pride  but  awhile  in  the  hours  of  her  stately  sway. 

But  the  might  of  the  noon,  though  the  light  of  it  pass 

away, 
Leaves  earth  fulfilled  of  desires  and  of  dreams  that  last ; 

But  if  any  there  be  that  hath  sense  of  them  none  can  say. 

For  if  any  there  be  that  hath  sight  of  them,  sense,  or  trust 
Made  strong  by  the  might  of  a  vision,  the  strength  of 

a  dream, 

His  lips  shall  straiten  and  close  as  a  dead  man's  must, 
His  heart  shall  be  sealed  as  the  voice  of  a  frost-bound 

stream. 

For  the  deep  mid  mystery  of  light  and  of  heat  that  seem 
To  clasp  and  pierce  dark  earth,  and  enkindle  dust, 
Shall  a  man's  faith  say  what  it  is  ?  or  a  man's  guess  deem  ? 

Sleep  lies  not  heavier  on  eyes  that  have  watched  all  night 

Than  hangs  the  heat  of  the  noon  on  the  hills  and  trees. 
Why  now  should  the  haze  not  open,  and  yield  to  sight 

A  fairer  secret  than  hope  or  than  slumber  sees  ? 

I  seek  not  heaven  with  submission  of  lips  and  knees, 
With  worship  and  prayer  for  a  sign  till  it  leap  to  light : 

I  gaze  on  the  gods  about  me,  and  call  on  these. 

I  call  on  the  gods  hard  by,  the  divine  dim  powers 

Whose  likeness  is  here  at  hand,  in  the  breathless  air, 
In  the  pulseless  peace  of  the  fervid  and  silent  flowers, 

In  the  faint  sweet  speech  of  the  waters  that  whisper  there. 

Ah,  what  should  darkness  do  in  a  world  so  fair  ? 
The  bent-grass  heaves  not,  the  couch-grass  quails  not  or 
cowers  ; 

The  wind's  kiss  frets  not  the  rowan's  or  aspen's  hair. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE      297 

But  the  silence  trembles  with  passion  of  sound  suppressed, 
And  the  twilight  quivers  and  yearns  to  the  sunward, 

wrung 
With  love  as  with  pain  ;  and  the  wide  wood's  motionless 

breast 
Is  thrilled  with  a  dumb  desire  that  would  fain  find 

tongue 
And  palpitates,  tongueless  as  she  whom  a  man-snake 

stung, 
Whose  heart  now  heaves  in  the  nightingale,  never  at 

rest 
Nor  satiated  ever  with  song  till  her  last  be  sung. 

Is  it  rapture  or  terror  that  circles  me  round,  and  invades 

Each  vein  of  my  life  with  hope — if  it  be  not  fear  ? 
Each  pulse  that  awakens  my  blood  into  rapture  fades, 
Each  pulse  that  subsides  into  dread  of  a  strange  thing 

near 
Requickens  with  sense   of  a  terror   less   dread   than 

dear. 

Is  peace  not  one  with  light  in  the  deep  green  glades 
Where  summer  at  noonday  slumbers  ?     Is  peace  not 
here  ? 

The  tall  thin  stems  of  the  firs,  and  the  roof  sublime 
That  screens  from  the  sun  the  floor  of  the  steep  still 

wood, 

Deep,  silent,  splendid,  and  perfect  and  calm  as  time, 
Stand  fast  as  ever  in  sight  of  the  night  they  stood, 
When  night  gave  all  that  moonlight  and  dewfall 

could. 
The  dense  ferns  deepen,  the  moss  glows  warm  as  the 

thyme  : 
The  wild  heath  quivers  about  me  :   the  world  is  good. 


298      ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Is  it  Pan's  breath,  fierce  in  the  tremulous  maidenhair, 
That  bids  fear  creep  as  a  snake  through  the  woodlands, 

felt 

In  the  leaves  that  it  stirs  not  yet,  in  the  mute  bright  air, 
In  the  stress  of  the  sun  ?     For  here  has  the  great  God 

dwelt : 

For  hence  were  the  shafts  of  his  love  or  his  anger  dealt. 
For  here  has  his  wrath  been  fierce  as  his  love  was  fair, 
When  each  was  as  fire  to  the  darkness  its  breath  bade  melt. 

Is  it  love,  is  it  dread,  that  enkindles  the  trembling  noon, 
That  yearns,  reluctant  in  rapture  that  fear  has  fed, 

As  man  for  woman,  as  woman  for  man  ?     Full  soon, 
If  I  live,  and  the  life  that  may  look  on  him  drop  not  dead, 
Shall  the  ear  that  hears  not  a  leaf  quake  hear  his  tread, 

The  sense  that  knows  not  the  sound  of  the  deep  day's  tune 
Receive  the  God,  be  it  love  that  he  brings  or  dread. 

The  naked  noon  is  upon  me  :  the  fierce  dumb  spell, 
The  fearful  charm  of  the  strong  sun's  imminent  might, 

Unmerciful,  steadfast,  deeper  than  seas  that  swell, 
Pervades,  invades,  appals  me  with  loveless  light, 
With  harsher  awe  than  breathes  in  the  breath  of  night. 

Have  mercy,  God  who  art  all !     For  I  know  thee  well, 
How  sharp  is  thine  eye  to  lighten,  thine  hand  to  smite. 

The  whole  wood  feels  thee,  the  whole  air  fears  thee :  but  fear 
So  deep,  so  dim,  so  sacred,  is  wellnigh  sweet. 

For  the  light  that  hangs  and  broods  on  the  woodlands  here, 
Intense,  invasive,  intolerant,  imperious,  and  meet 
To  lighten  the  works  of  thine  hands  and  the  ways  of 
thy  feet, 

Is  hot  with  the  fire  of  the  breath  of  thy  life,  and  dear 
As  hope  that  shrivels  or  shrinks  not  for  frost  or  heat. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE   299 

Thee,  thee  the  supreme  dim  godhead,  approved  afar, 

Perceived  of  the  soul  and  conceived  of  the  sense  of  man 
We  scarce  dare  love,  and  we  dare  not  fear  :  the  star 
We  call  the  sun,  that  lit  us  when  life  began 
To  brood  on  the  world  that  is  thine  by  his  grace  for 

a  span, 

Conceals  and  reveals  in  the  semblance  of  things  that  are 
Thine  immanent  presence,  the  pulse  of  thy  heart's  life, 
Pan. 

The  fierce  mid  noon  that  wakens  and  warms  the  snake 
Conceals  thy  mercy,  reveals  thy  wrath  :   and  again 

The  dew-bright  hour  that  assuages  the  twilight  brake 
Conceals  thy  wrath  and  reveals  thy  mercy  :   then 
Thou  art  fearful  only  for  evil  souls  of  men 

That  feel  with  nightfall  the  serpent  within  them  wake, 
And  hate  the  holy  darkness  on  glade  and  glen. 

Yea,  then  we  know  not  and  dream  not  if  ill  things  be, 
Or  if  aught  of  the  work  of  the  wrong  of  the  world  be  thine. 

We  hear  not  the  footfall  of  terror  that  treads  the  sea, 
We  hear  not  the  moan  of  winds  that  assail  the  pine  : 
We  see  not  if  shipwreck  reign  in  the  storm's  dim  shrine  ; 

If  death  do  service  and  doom  bear  witness  to  thee 
We  see  not, — know  not  if  blood  for  thy  lips  be  wine. 

But  in  all  things  evil  and  fearful  that  fear  may  scan, 
As  in  all  things  good,  as  in  all  things  fair  that  fall, 
We  know  thee  present  and  latent,  the  lord  of  man  ; 
In  the  murmuring  of  doves,  in  the  clamouring  of  winds 

that  call 

And  wolves  that  howl  for  their  prey ;    in  the  mid 
night's  pall, 

In  the  naked  and  nymph-like  feet  of  the  dawn,  O  Pan, 
And  in  each  life  living,  O  thou  the  God  who  art  all. 


300     ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Smiling  and  singing,  wailing  and  wringing  of  hands, 

Laughing  and  weeping,  watching  and  sleeping,  still 
Proclaim  but  and  prove  but  thee,  as  the  shifted  sands 
Speak  forth  and  show  but  the  strength  of  the  sea's 

wild  will 

That  sifts  and  grinds  them  as  grain  in  the  storm- 
wind's  mill. 

In  thee  is  the  doom  that  falls  and  the  doom  that  stands  : 
The  tempests  utter  thy  word,  and  the  stars  fulfil. 

Where  Etna  shudders  with  passion  and  pain  volcanic 
That  rend  her  heart  as  with  anguish  that  rends  a  man's, 

Where  Typho  labours,  and  finds  not  his  thews  Titanic, 
In  breathless  torment  that  ever  the  flame's  breath  fans, 
Men  felt  and  feared  thee  of  old,  whose  pastoral  clans 

Were  given  to  the  charge  of  thy  keeping ;  and  sou  ndless  panic 
Held    fast   the   woodland   whose   depths   and   whose 
heights  were  Pan's. 

And  here,  though  fear  be  less  than  delight,  and  awe 
Be  one  with  desire  and  with  worship  of  earth  and  thee, 

So  mild  seems  now  thy  secret  and  speechless  law, 
So  fair  and  fearless  and  faithful  and  godlike  she, 
So  soft  the  spell  of  thy  whisper  on  stream  and  sea, 

Yet  man  should  fear  lest  he  see  what  of  old  men  saw 
And  withered  :  yet  shall  I  quail  if  thy  breath  smite  me. 

Lord  God  of  life  and  of  light  and  of  all  things  fair, 

Lord  God  of  ravin  and  ruin  and  all  things  dim, 
Death  seals  up  life,  and  darkness  the  sunbright  air, 
And  the  stars  that  watch  blind  earth  in  the  deep  night 

swim 
Laugh,  saying,  *  What  God  is  your  God,  that  ye  call 

on  him  ? 
What  is  man,  that  the  God  who  is  guide  of  our  way 

should  care 
If  day  for  a  man  be  golden,  or  night  be  grim  ? ' 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE      301 

But  thou,  dost  thou  hear  ?     Stars  too  but  abide  for 

a  span, 

Gods  too  but  endure  for  a  season  ;  but  thou,  if  thou  be 

God,  more  than  shadows  conceived  and  adored  of  man, 

Kind  Gods  and  fierce,  that  bound  him  or  made  him  free, 

The  skies  that  scorn  us  are  less  in  thy  sight  than  we, 

Whose  souls  have  strength  to  conceive  and  perceive  thee, 

Pan, 
With  sense  more  subtle  than  senses  that  hear  and  see. 

Yet  may  it  not  say,  though  it  seek  thee  and  think  to  find 
One  soul  of  sense  in  the  fire  and  the  frost-bound  clod, 

What  heart  is  this,  what  spirit  alive  or  blind, 

That  moves  thee  :  only  we  know  that  the  ways  we  trod 
We  tread,  with  hands  unguided,  with  feet  unshod, 

With  eyes  unlightened  ;   and  yet,  if  with  steadfast  mind, 
Perchance  may  we  find  thee  and  know  thee  at  last  for 
God. 

Yet  then  should  God  be  dark  as  the  dawn  is  bright, 
And  bright  as  the  night  is  dark  on  the  world — no  more. 

Light  slays  not  darkness,  and  darkness  absorbs  not  light ; 
And  the  labour  of  evil  and  good  from  the  years  of  yore 
Is  even  as  the  labour  of  waves  on  a  sunless  shore. 

And  he  who  is  first  and  last,  who  is  depth  and  height, 
Keeps  silence  now,  as  the  sun  when  the  woods  wax  hoar. 

The  dark  dumb  godhead  innate  in  the  fair  world's  life 

Imbues  the  rapture  of  dawn  and  of  noon  with  dread, 
Infects  the  peace  of  the  star-shod  night  with  strife, 

Informs  with  terror  the  sorrow  that  guards  the  dead. 

No  service  of  bended  knee  or  of  humbled  head 
May  soothe  or  subdue  the  God  who  has  change  to  wife  : 

And  life  with  death  is  as  morning  with  evening  wed 


302      ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

And  yet,  if  the  light  and  the  life  in  the  light  that  here 
Seem  soft  and  splendid  and  fervid  as  sleep  may  seem 
Be  more  than  the  shine  of  a  smile  or  the  flash  of  a  tear, 
Sleep,  change,  and  death  are  less  than  a  spell-struck 

dream, 

And  fear  than  the  fall  of  a  leaf  on  a  starlit  stream. 
And  yet,  if  the  hope  that  hath  said  it  absorb  not  fear, 
What   helps   it   man  that  the  stars  and   the  waters 
gleam  ? 

What  helps  it  man,  that  the  noon  be  indeed  intense, 

The  night  be  indeed  worth  worship  ?     Fear  and  pain 
Were  lords  and  masters  yet  of  the  secret  sense, 

Which  now  dares  deem  not  that  light  is  as  darkness,  fain 
Though  dark  dreams  be  to  declare  it,  crying  in  vain. 
For  whence,  thou  God  of  the  light  and  the  darkness, 

whence 

Dawns  now  this  vision  that  bids  not  the  sunbeams 
wane  ? 

What  light,  what  shadow,  diviner  than  dawn  or  night, 
Draws  near,  makes  pause,  and  again — or  I  dream — 

draws  near  ? 
More  soft  than  shadow,  more  strong  than  the  strong 

sun's  light, 
More  pure  than  moonbeams — yea,  but  the  rays  run 

sheer 
As  fire  from  the  sun  through  the  dusk  of  the  pinewood, 

clear 

And  constant ;   yea,  but  the  shadow  itself  is  bright 
That  the  light  clothes  round  with  love  that  is  one 
with  fear. 

Above  and  behind  it  the  noon  and  the  woodland  lie, 
Terrible,  radiant  with  mystery,  superb  and  subdued, 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE      303 

Triumphant  in  silence  ;    and  hardly  the  sacred  sky 
Seems  free  from  the  tyrannous  weight  of  the  dumb 

fierce  mood 
Which  rules  as  with  fire  and  invasion  of  beams  that  brood 

The  breathless  rapture  of  earth  till  its  hour  pass  by 
And  leave  her  spirit  released  and  her  peace  renewed. 

I  sleep  not :  never  in  sleep  has  a  man  beholden 
This.     From  the  shadow  that  trembles  and  yearns 

with  light 

Suppressed  and  elate  and  reluctant — obscure  and  golden 
As  water  kindled  with  presage  of  dawn  or  night — 
A  form,  a  face,  a  wonder  to  sense  and  sight, 
Grows  great  as  the  moon  through  the  month ;   and  her 

eyes  embolden 
Fear,  till  it  change  to  desire,  and  desire  to  delight. 

I  sleep  not :  sleep  would  die  of  a  dream  so  strange  ; 

A  dream  so  sweet  would  die  as  a  rainbow  dies, 
As  a  sunbow  laughs  and  is  lost  on  the  waves  that  range 
And  reck  not  of  light  that  flickers  or  spray  that  flies. 
But  the  sun  withdraws  not,  the  woodland  shrinks  not 

or  sighs, 

No  sweet  thing  sickens  with  sense  or  with  fear  of  change  ; 
Light  wounds  not,  darkness  blinds  not,  my  steadfast 
eyes. 

Only  the  soul  in  my  sense  that  receives  the  soul 

Whence  now  my  spirit  is  kindled  with  breathless  bliss 

Knows  well  if  the  light  that  wounds  it  with  love  makes 

whole, 

If  hopes  that  carol  be  louder  than  fears  that  hiss, 
If  truth  be  spoken  of  flowers  and  of  waves  that  kiss,' 

Of  clouds  and  stars  that  contend  for  a  sunbright  goal. 
And  yet  may  I  dream  that  I  dream  not  indeed  of  this? 


304   ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

An  earth-born  dreamer,  constrained  by  the  bonds  of  birth, 
Held  fast  by  the  flesh,  compelled  by  his  veins  that  beat 

And  kindle  to  rapture  or  wrath,  to  desire  or  to  mirth, 
May  hear  not  surely  the  fall  of  immortal  feet, 
May  feel  not  surely  if  heaven  upon  earth  be  sweet ; 

And  here  is  my  sense  fulfilled  of  the  joys  of  earth, 

Light,  silence,  bloom,  shade,  murmur  of  leaves  that  meet. 

Bloom,  fervour,  and  perfume  of  grasses  and  flowers  aglow, 

Breathe  and  brighten  about  me  :  the  darkness  gleams, 
The  sweet  light  shivers  and  laughs  on  the  slopes  below, 

Made  soft  by  leaves  that  lighten  and  change  like  dreams ; 

The  silence  thrills  with  the  whisper  of  secret  streams 
That  well  from  the  heart  of  the  woodland:  these  I  know: 

Earth  bore  them,  heaven  sustained  them  with  showers 
and  beams. 

I  lean  my  face  to  the  heather,  and  drink  the  sun 

Whose  flame-lit  odour  satiates  the  flowers  :   mine  eyes 
Close,  and  the  goal  of  delight  and  of  life  is  one  : 
No  more  I  crave  of  earth  or  her  kindred  skies. 
No  more  ?     But  the  joy  that  springs  from  them  smiles 

and  flies : 
The  sweet  work  wrought  of  them  surely,  the  good  work 

done, 
If  the  mind  and  the  face  of  the  season  be  loveless,  dies. 

Thee,  therefore,  thee  would  I  come  to,  cleave  to,  cling, 
If  haply  thy  heart  be  kind  and  thy  gifts  be  good, 

Unknown  sweet  spirit,  whose  vesture  is  soft  in  spring, 
In  summer  splendid,  in  autumn  pale  as  the  wood 
That  shudders  and  wanes  and  shrinks  as  a  shamed  thing 
should, 

In  winter  bright  as  the  mail  of  a  war-worn  king 

Who  stands  where  foes  fled  far  from  the  face  of  him  stood . 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE      305 

My  spirit  or  thine  is  it,  breath  of  thy  life  or  of  mine, 

Which  fills  my  sense  with  a  rapture  that  casts  out  fear  ? 
Pan's  dim  frown  wanes,  and  his  wild  eyes  brighten  as  thine, 

Transformed  as  night  or  as  day  by  the  kindling  year. 

Earth-born,  or  mine  eye  were  withered  that  sees,  mine  ear 
That  hears  were  stricken  to  death  by  the  sense  divine, 

Earth-born  I  know  thee  :  but  heaven  is  about  me  here. 

The  terror  that  whispers  in  darkness  and  flames  in  light, 
The  doubt  that  speaks  in  the  silence  of  earth  and  sea, 

The  sense,  more  fearful  at  noon  than  in  midmost  night, 
Of  wrath  scarce  hushed  and  of  imminent  ill  to  be, 
Where  are  they  ?    Heaven  is  as  earth,  and  as  heaven  to  me 

Earth  :    for  the  shadows  that  sundered  them  here  take 

flight ; 
And  naught  is  all,  as  am  I,  but  a  dream  of  thee. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS 

1840-1893 

The  Vanishing  Point 

'  I  'HERE  are  who,  when  the  bat  on  wing  transverse 
JL  Skims  the  swart  surface  of  some  neighbouring  mere, 
Catch  that  thin  cry  too  fine  for  common  ear  : 
Thus  the  last  joy-note  of  the  universe 

Is  borne  to  those  few  listeners  who  immerse 
Their  intellectual  hearing  in  no  clear 
Paean,  but  pierce  it  with  the  thin-edged  spear 
Of  utmost  beauty  which  contains  a  curse. 

Dead  on  their  sense  fall  marches  hymeneal, 
Triumphal  odes,  hymns,  symphonies  sonorous ; 
They  crave  one  shrill  vibration,  tense,  ideal, 

Transcending  and  surpassing  the  world's  chorus ; 
Keen,  fine,  ethereal,  exquisitely  real, 
Intangible  as  star's  light  quivering  o'er  us. 


306          JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS 

The  Prism  of  Life 

AjL  that  began  with  God,  in  God  must  end  : 
All  lives  are  garnered  in  His  final  bliss : 
All  wills  hereafter  shall  be  one  with  His  : 
When  in  the  sea  we  sought,  our  spirits  blend. 

Rays  of  pure  light,  which  one  frail  prism  may  rend 
Into  conflicting  colours,  meet  and  kiss 
With  manifold  attraction,  yet  still  miss 
Contentment,  while  their  kindred  hues  contend. 

Break  but  that  three-edged  glass : — inviolate 
The  sundered  beams  resume  their  primal  «tate, 
Weaving  pure  light  in  flawless  harmony. 

Thus  decomposed,  subject  to  love  and  strife, 

God's  thought,  made  conscious  through  man's  mortal 

life, 
Resumes  through  death  the  eternal  unity. 

Adventante  Deo 

EFT  up  your  heads,  gates  of  my  heart,  unfold 
Your  portals  to  salute  the  King  of  kings ! 
Behold  Him  come,  borne  on  cherubic  wings 
Engrained  with  crimson  eyes  and  grail  of  gold  ! 

Before  His  path  the  thunder-clouds  withhold 
Their  stormy  pinions,  and  the  desert  sings : 
He  from  His  lips  divine  and  forehead  flings 
Sunlight  of  peace  unfathomed,  bliss  untold. 

O  soul,  faint  soul,  disquieted  how  long  ! 
Lift  up  thine  eyes,  for  lo,  thy  Lord  is  near, 
Lord  of  all  loveliness  and  strength  and  song, 

The  Lord  who  brings  heart-sadness  better  cheer, 

Scattering  those  midnight  dreams  that  dote  on  wrong, 
Purging  with  heaven's  pure  rays  love's  atmosphere  ! 


JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS  3°7 


An-  Invocation 

nPO  God,  the  everlasting,  who  abides, 

J.  One  Life  within  things  infinite  that  die: 
To  Him  whose  unity  no  thought  divides  : 
Whose  breath  is  breathed  through  immensity. 

Him  neither  eye  hath  seen,  nor  ear  hath  heard  ; 
Nor  reason,  seated  in  the  souls  of  men, 
Though  pondering  oft  on  the  mysterious  word, 
Hath  e'er  revealed  His  Being  to  mortal  ken. 

Earth  changes,  and  the  starry  wheels  roll  round  ; 
The  seasons  come  and  go,  moons  wax  and  wane ; 
The  nations  rise  and  fall,  and  fill  the  ground, 
Storing  the  sure  results  of  joy  and  pain  : 

Slow  knowledge  widens  toward  a  perfect  whole, 
From  that  first  man  who  named  the  name  of  heaven, 
To  him  who  weighs  the  planets  as  they  roll, 
And  knows  what  laws  to  every  life  are  given. 

Yet  He  appears  not.     Round  the  extreme  sphere 
Of  science  still  thin  ether  floats  unseen  : 
Darkness  still  wraps  Him  round ;   and  ignorant  fear 
Remains  of  what  we  are,  and  what  have  been. 

Only  we  feel  Him  ;   and  in  aching  dreams, 
Swift  intuitions,  pangs  of  keen  delight, 
The  sudden  vision  of  His  glory  seems 
To  sear  our  souls,  dividing  the  dull  night : 


308          JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS 

And  we  yearn  toward  Him.     Beauty,  Goodness,  Truth ; 
These  three  are  one  ;   one  life,  one  thought,  one  being ; 
One  source  of  still  rejuvenescent  youth  ; 
One  light  for  endless  and  unclouded  seeing. 

Mere  symbols  we  perceive — the  dying  beauty, 
The  partial  truth  that  few  can  comprehend, 
The  vacillating  faith,  the  painful  duty, 
The  virtue  labouring  to  a  dubious  end. 

O  God,  unknown,  invisible,  secure, 
Whose  being  by  dim  resemblances  we  guess, 
Who  in  man's  fear  and  love  abidest  sure, 
Whose  power  we  feel  in  darkness  and  confess ! 

Without  Thee  nothing  is,  and  Thou  art  nought 
When  on  Thy  substance  we  gaze  curiously  : 
By  Thee  impalpable,  named  Force  and  Thought, 
The  solid  world  still  ceases  not  to  be. 

Lead  Thou  me  God,  Law,  Reason,  Duty,  Life  ! 
All  names  for  Thee  alike  are  vain  and  hollow — 
Lead  me,  for  I  will  follow  without  strife  ; 
Or,  if  I  strive,  still  must  I  blindly  follow. 


309 

ELLEN  MARY  CLERKE 

1840-1906 

The  Building  and  Pinnacle  of  the  Temple 

NOT  made  with  hands,  its  walls  began  to  climb 
From  roots  in  Life's  foundations  deeply  set, 
Far  down  amid  primaeval  forms,  where  yet 

Creation's  Finger  seemed  to  grope  in  slime. 

Yet  not  in  vain  passed  those  first-born  of  Time, 
Since  each  some  presage  gave  of  structure  met 
In  higher  types,  lest  these  the  bond  forget 

That  links  Earth's  latest  to  the  fore-world's  prime 
And  living  stone  on  living  stone  was  laid, 
In  scale  ascending  ever,  grade  on  grade, 

To  that  which  in  its  Maker's  eyes  seemed  good — 
The  Human  Form  :  and  in  that  shrine  of  thought, 
By  the  long  travail  of  the  ages  wrought, 

The  Temple  of  the  Incarnation  stood. 

Through  all  the  ages  since  the  primal  ray, 

Herald  of  life,  first  smote  the  abysmal  night 

Of  elemental  Chaos,  and  the  might 
Of  the  Creative  Spark  informed  the  clay, 
From  worm  to  brute,  from  brute  to  man — its  way 

The  Shaping  Thought  took  upward,  flight  on  flight, 

By  stages  which  Earth's  loftiest  unite 
Unto  her  least,  made  kin  to  such  as  they. 

As  living  link,  or  prophecy,  or  type 

Of  purpose  for  fulfilment  yet  unripe, 
Each  has  its  niche  in  the  supreme  design  ; 

Converging  to  one  Pinnacle,  whereat 

Sole  stands  Creation's  Masterpiece — and  that 
Which  was  through  her — the  Human  made  Divine. 


3io 


HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER 
From  c  Liber  Amoris  ' 


1840-1887 


OH,  there  are  moments  in  man's  mortal  years 
When  for  an  instant  that  which  long  has  lain 
Beyond  our  reach  is  on  a  sudden  found 
In  things  of  smallest  compass,  and  we  hold 
The  unbounded  shut  in  one  small  minute's  space, 
And  worlds  within  the  hollow  of  our  hand, — 
A  world  of  music  in  one  word  of  love, 
A  world  of  love  in  one  quick  wordless  look, 
A  world  of  thought  in  one  translucent  phrase, 
A  world  of  memory  in  one  mournful  chord, 
A  world  of  sorrow  in  one  little  song. 
Such  moments  are  man's  holiest, — the  divine 
And  first-sown  seeds  of  Love's  eternity. 
And  such  were  those  last  moments  when  I  sat 
Beside  my  long-lost  friend,  soft-laid  again 
In  what  no  longer  was  his  lair  of  death, 
But  now  his  bed  of  glory.     Life,  all  life, 
Its  terrors  and  its  tumults  and  its  tears, 
Its  hopes,  its  agonies  and  its  ecstasies, 
Its  nights  of  sorrow  and  its  dawns  of  joy, 
Its  visionary  raptures  and  its  dull 
Death-darkened  hours,  its  longings,  losses,  gains, 
Curses  and  cries  and  lamentations  loud, 
Sins,  frenzies,  and  despairs,  the  monstrous  births 
Of  thought  and  action  groping  for  the  light, 
The  false,  the  true,  the  night's  red  underworld 
Of  nadir  darkness,  and  the  zenith  stars 
Lost  in  their  spheral  music  beating  time 
To  every  heart  that  hates  or  loves  or  mourns, — 


HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER    311 

These  now  were  one,  and  I  was  one  with  these, 
And  these  with  me  through  Love's  transfusing  power 
That  passed  upon  me  then.     There  as  we  sat, — 
My  brother  and  I,  my  brother  made  anew, 
My  brother  thrice  made  mine,  for  ever  mine, 
Made  one  and  equal  with  me  through  Love's  might, — 
We  felt  all  space  was  ours,  all  time  was  ours ; 
We  were  as  those  that  reign  above  the  worlds ; 
And  in  our  souls  we  saw  the  light  round  which 
All  multiformal  things  grow  uniform, 
The  many  sing  as  one.     And  we  were  one, 
Calm-seated  in  the  heaven  that  overflows 
With  the  world's  music  of  perpetual  peace. 


ii 

And  then  I  thought  that  He  whom  we  name  God 

Was  not  perhaps  some  unit  of  cold  thought 

Such  as  Greek  sages  gave  to  Christian  saints, 

A  primal  number,  lone,  creationless ; 

But  now  He  came  to  me,  as  oft  before, 

The  everlasting  Twofold,  ever  one, 

The  man  and  woman  still  inseparable. 

And  as  the  absolute  can  never  live 

Without  its  relative  ;   as  silent  space 

Knows  nothing,  never  sees  or  hears  itself 

Without  time's  measuring  music  ;   as  cold  form 

Lies  blind  and  blank  till  colour  comes  with  kiss 

And  warmth  outpoured  upon  it,  such  as  once 

Elisha  poured  upon  the  lifeless  child, — 

So  God  was  now  no  longer  unto  me 

A  lonely  masculine  might  above  the  worlds, 

But  as  the  man  and  woman,  twofold  life, 

Its  married  Law  and  Love,  and  these  were  one. 


312          HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER 

And  from  their  wedded  love  sprang  forth  a  child, 
Their  first-begotten-son,  whose  name  was  Love, — 
Love  their  great  heir,  the  lord  of  life  and  death, 
The  holder  of  the  keys  to  all  we  know 
And  all  the  secrets  of  the  unsearchable, 
The  chalice-bearer  of  the  world's  life-wine, 
Bringer  of  light  and  steersman  of  the  stars. 

HARRIET  ELEANOR  HAMILTON-KING 

b.  1840 

The  Bride  Reluctant 

'  I  EAVE  the  romance  before  the  end  ; 

•    >i     Leave  the  late  roses  to  their  fall ; 
Dismiss  the  nurselings  thou  dost  tend  ; 

I  hear  another,  closer  call. 
'Tis  I,  thy  Guardian,  give  thee  word, 

Thy  Bridegroom  seeketh  thee,  O  sweet ! 
Thy  Bridegroom  comes, — His  step  I  heard — 

Within  thy  chamber  thee  to  meet.' 

'  Another  day,  another  time  ! 

'Tis  pleasant  in  the  outer  room  ; 
I  love  the  airy  summer  clime, 

And  not  the  inner  chamber's  gloom. 
And  this  .year's  roses  will  not  come 

Again  ;   but  betwixt  us  the  bond 
Is  fixed,  and  fast,  and  wearisome  ; 

For  one  is  fickle,  one  is  fond.' 

1  Come  to  thy  chamber,  for  He  stands 

Tearful,  and  seeking  only  thee  ; 
With  ravished  eyes,  and  outstretched  hands, 

And  He  commands  resistlessly. 


HARRIET  ELEANOR  HAMILTON-KING     313 

Come  to  thy  chamber,  though  it  be 

Narrow,  and  dark,  and  full  of  pain  ; 
He  paid  a  heavy  price  for  thee, 

And  can  He  let  thee  go  again  ?  ' 

'  My  Bridegroom's  bed  is  cold  and  hard, 

My  Bridegroom's  kiss  is  ice  and  fire, 
My  Bridegroom's  clasp  is  iron-barred, 

I  am  consumed  in  His  desire : 
My  Bridegroom's  touch  is  as  a  sword 

That  pierces  every  nerve  and  limb  ; 
"  Depart  from  me,"  I  moan,  "  O  Lord  !  " 

All  the  night  long  I  spend  with  Him.' 

'  Oh  !   heart  of  woman  holdeth  not 

The  passion  of  His  love  for  thee  ; 
He  sees  thee  perfect,  without  spot, 

Crowned  with  celestial  jewelry. 
The  doors  of  Heaven  could  not  hold 

His  feet  from  hasting  to  thy  side  ; 
The  ardours  of  the  Suns  are  cold 

To  His  for  thee,  His  hard- won  bride.' 

*  Rather  am  I  His  bondmaiden, 

Compelled  by  law  and  not  by  love. 
Oh,  would  I  were  enfranchised  ;   then 

With  wings  of  silver,  like  a  dove — 
Then  would  I  flee,  past  heaven's  far  bound, 

The  unendurable  embrace  ; 
Then  would  I  hide  in  earth's  profound 

From  the  strange  terror  of  His  Face  ! ' 

4  Enter,  to  keep  thy  Bridegroom's  tryst  ! 

Liking  or  loth  I  thee  have  led  : 
He  is  thine  own,  albeit  He  wist 

That  thy  half-hearted  love  was  dead 


3H    HARRIET  ELEANOR  HAMILTON-KING 

What  though  His  Bride  with  Him  must  share 
A  couch  of  thorns  without  repose  ? 

Thousands  this  moment  death  would  dare 
To  know  one  word  of  all  she  knows.' 

'  I  pine,  on  haunted  hills  to  muse, 

To  face  the  open  sunrise  skies ; 
I  pine  for  friends  that  I  might  choose  ; 

I  pine  for  little  children's  eyes ; 
For  free  and  fearless  limbs — to  move 

Breasting  the  wave,  breasting  the  breeze  : 
But  jealous  love  is  cruel  love, 

And  He  denies  me  all  of  these.' 

*  Child,  take  thy  roses,  take  thy  toys, 

Take  back  thy  life  and  liberty ; 
Thy  days  shall  flow  in  simple  joys, 

And  undisturbed  thy  nights  shall  be. 
Thy  Bridegroom  does  thee  no  more  wrong, 

Poor  child,  the  victim  of  His  Heart : 
Look  but  on  Him  once  more, — one  long 

Last  look,  and  then  from  Him  depart. 

*  Farewell — one  look.     But  oh  !   this  lone 

Bare  desert,  where  I  might  be  free ! 
Thy  Face  I  see — Thy  Face,  my  own,     * 

And  naught  in  heaven  or  earth  but  Thee  ! 
But  O  my  Lord,  my  Life,  my  Love, 

Thou  knowest  all  my  weakness  best ; 
Take  back  into  the  ark  Thy  dove, 

And  comfort  me  upon  Thy  breast ! ' 


HARRIET  ELEANOR  HAMILTON-KING     315 
From  '  The  Disciples' 

WE  suffer.     Why  we  suffer, — that  is  hid 
With  God's  foreknowledge  in  the  clouds  of  Heaven. 
The  first  book  written  sends  that  human  cry- 
Out  of  the  clear  Chaldean  pasture-lands 
Down  forty  centuries ;    and  no  answer  yet 
Is  found,  nor  will  be  found,  while  yet  we  live 
In  limitations  of  Humanity. 
But  yet  one  thought  has  often  stayed  by  me 
In  the  night-watches,  which  has  brought  at  least 
The  patience  for  the  hour,  and  made  the  pain 
No  more  a  burden  which  I  groaned  to  leave, 
But  something  precious  which  I  feared  to  lose. 
— How  shall  I  show  it,  but  by  parables  ? 

The  sculptor,  with  his  Psyche's  wings  half-hewn, 
May  close  his  eyes  in  weariness,  and  wake 
To  meet  the  white  cold  clay  of  his  ideal 
Flushed  into  beating  life,  and  singing  down 
The  ways  of  Paradise.     The  husbandman 
May  leave  the  golden  fruitage  of  his  groves 
Un garnered,  and  upon  the  Tree  of  Life 
Will  find  a  richer  harvest  waiting  him. 
The  soldier  dying  thinks  upon  his  bride, 
And  knows  his  arms  shall  never  clasp  her  more, 
Until  he  first  the  face  of  his  unborn  child 
Behold  in  heaven  :  for  each  and  all  of  life, 
In  every  phase  of  action,  love,  and  joy, 
There  is  fulfilment  only  otherwhere. — 

But  if,  impatient,  thou  let  slip  thy  cross, 
Thou  wilt  not  find  it  in  this  world  again, 
Nor  in  another  ;   here,  and  here  alone 
Is  given  thee  to  suffer  for  God's  sake. 


3i6    HARRIET  ELEANOR  HAMILTON-KING 

In  other  worlds  we  shall  more  perfectly 

Serve  Him  and  love  Him,  praise  Him,  work  for  Him, 

Grow  near  and  nearer  Him  with  all  delight ; 

But  then  we  shall  not  any  more  be  called 

To  suffer,  which  is  our  appointment  here. 

Canst  thou  not  suffer  then  one  hour, — or  two  ? 

If  He  should  call  thee  from  thy  cross  to-day, 

Saying,  It  is  finished  ! — that  hard  cross  of  thine 

From  which  thou  prayest  for  deliverance, 

Thinkest  thou  not  some  passion  of  regret 

Would  overcome  thee  ?    Thou  wouldst  say,  *  So  soon  ? 

Let  me  go  back,  and  suffer  yet  awhile 

More  patiently ; — I  have  not  yet  praised  God.' 

And  He  might  answer  to  thee, — '  Never  more. 

All  pain  is  done  with.'     Whensoever  it  comes, 

That  summons  that  we  look  for,  it  will  seem 

Soon,  yea  too  soon.     Let  us  take  heed  in  time 

That  God  may  now  be  glorified  in  us  ; 

And  while  we  suffer,  let  us  set  our  souls 

To  suffer  perfectly  :   since  this  alone, 

The  suffering,  which  is  this  world's  special  grace, 

May  here  be  perfected  and  left  behind. 

— But  in  obedience  and  humility ; — 
Waiting  on  God's  hand,  not  forestalling  it. 
Seek  not  to  snatch  presumptuously  the  palm 
By  self-election  ;   poison  not  thy  wine 
With  bitter  herbs  if  He  has  made  it  sweet ; 
Nor  rob  God's  treasuries  because  the  key 
Is  easy  to  be  turned  by  mortal  hands. 
The  gifts  of  birth,  death,  genius,  suffering, 
Are  all  for  His  hand  only  to  bestow. 
Receive  thy  portion,  and  be  satisfied. 
Who  crowns  himself  a  king  is  not  the  more 


HARRIET  ELEANOR  HAMILTON-KING    317 

Royal ;   nor  he  who  mars  himself  with  stripes 
The  more  partaker  of  the  Cross  of  Christ. 

But  if  Himself  He  come  to  thee,  and  stand 
Beside  thee,  gazing  down  on  thee  with  eyes 
That  smile,  and  suffer  ;   that  will  smite  thy  heart, 
With  their  own  pity,  to  a  passionate  peace  ; 
And  reach  to  thee  Himself  the  Holy  Cup 
(With  all  its  wreathen  stems  of  passion-flowers 
And  quivering  sparkles  of  the  ruby  stars), 
Pallid  and  royal,  saying  '  Drink  with  Me  '  ; 
Wilt  thou  refuse  ?     Nay,  not  for  Paradise ! 
The  pale  brow  will  compel  thee,  the  pure  hands 
Will  minister  unto  thee  ;   thou  shalt  take 
Of  that  communion  through  the  solemn  depths 
Of  the  dark  waters  of  thine  agony, 
With  heart  that  praises  Him,  that  yearns  to  Him 
The  closer  through  that  hour.     Hold  fast  His  hand, 
Though  the  nails  pierce  thine  too  !   take  only  care 
Lest  one  drop  of  the  sacramental  wine 
Be  spilled,  of  that  which  ever  shall  unite 
Thee,  soul  and  body  to  thy  living  Lord  ! 

Therefore  gird  up  thyself,  and  come,  to  stand 
Unflinching  under  the  unfaltering  hand, 
That  waits  to  prove  thee  to  the  uttermost. 
It  were  not  hard  to  suffer  by  His  hand, 
If  thou  couldst  see  His  face  ; — but  in  the  dark  ! 
That  is  the  one  last  trial : — be  it  so. 
Christ  was  forsaken,  so  must  thou  be  too  : 
How  couldst  thou  suffer  but  in  seeming,  else  ? 
Thou  wilt  not  see  the  face  nor  feel  the  hand, 
Only  the  cruel  crushing  of  the  feet, 
When  through  the  bitter  night  the  Lord  comes  down 
To  tread  the  winepress. — Not  by  sight,  but  faith, 
Endure,  endure, — be  faithful  to  the  end  ! 


SARAH  WILLIAMS 

1841-1868 
Deep-sea  Soundings 

MARINER,  what  of  the  deep  ? 
This  of  the  deep  : 

Twilight  is  there,  and  solemn,  changeless  calm ; 
Beauty  is  there,  and  tender  healing  balm — 
Balm  with  no  root  in  earth,  or  air,  or  sea, 
Poised  by  the  finger  of  God,  it  floateth  free, 
And,  as  it  threads  the  waves,  the  sound  doth  rise, — 
Hither  shall  come  no  further  sacrifice  ; 
Never  again  the  anguished  clutch  at  life, 
Never  again  great  Love  and  Death  in  strife  ; 
He  who  hath  suffered  all,  need  fear  no  more, 
Quiet  his  portion  now,  for  evermore. 

Mariner,  what  of  the  deep  ? 

This  of  the  deep  : 

Solitude  dwells  not  there,  though  silence  reign  ; 
Mighty  the  brotherhood  of  loss  and  pain  ; 
There  is  communion  past  the  need  of  speech, 
There  is  a  love  no  words  of  love  can  reach  ; 
Heavy  the  waves  that  superincumbent  press, 
But  as  we  labour  here  with  constant  stress, 
Hand  doth  hold  out  to  hand  not  help  alone, 
But  the  deep  bliss  of  being  fully  known. 
There  are  no  kindred  like  the  kin  of  sorrow, 
There  is  no  hope  like  theirs  who  fear  no  morrow. 

Mariner,  what  of  the  deep  ? 

This  of  the  deep  : 

Though  we  have  travelled  past  the  line  of  day, 
Glory  of  night  doth  light  us  on  our  way, 


SARAH  WILLIAMS  319 

Radiance  that  comes  we  know  not  how  nor  whence, 

Rainbows  without  the  rain,  past  duller  sense, 

Music  of  hidden  reefs  and  waves  long  past, 

Thunderous  organ  tones  from  far-off  blast, 

Harmony,  victrix,  throned  in  state  sublime, 

Couched  on  the  wrecks  be-gemmed  with  pearls  of  time ; 

Never  a  wreck  but  brings  some  beauty  here  ; 

Down  where  the  waves  are  stilled  the  sea  shines  clear  ; 

Deeper  than  life  the  plan  of  life  doth  lie, 

He  who  knows  all,  fears  naught.    Great  Death  shall  die. 

ROBERT  BUCHANAN 

1841-1901 
The  Tree  of  Life 

THE  Master  said  : 
*  I  have  planted  the  Seed  of  a  Tree, 
It  shall  be  strangely  fed 
With  white  dew  and  with  red, 

And  the  Gardeners  shall  be  three — 
Regret,  Hope,  Memory  ! ' 

The  Master  smiled  : 

For  the  Seed  that  He  had  set 
Broke  presently  thro'  the  mould, 
With  a  glimmer  of  green  and  gold, 

And  the  Angels'  eyes  were  wet — 

Hope,  Memory,  Regret. 

The  Master  cried  : 

'  It  liveth — breatheth — see  ! 

Its  soft  lips  open  wide — 

It  looks  from  side  to  side — 

How  strange  they  gleam  on  me, 
The  little  dim  eyes  of  the  Tree  ! ' 


320  ROBERT  BUCHANAN 

The  Master  said  : 

*  After  a  million  years, 
The  Seed  I  set  and  fed 
To  itself  hath  gathered 

All  the  world's  smiles  and  tears — 

How  mighty  it  appears ! ' 

The  Master  said  : 

'  At  last,  at  last,  I  see 
A  Blossom,  a  Blossom  o'  red 
From  the  heart  of  the  Tree  is  shed. 

'Tis  fairer  certainly 

Than  the  Tree,  or  the  leaves  of  the  Tree.' 

The  Master  cried  : 

'  O  Angels,  that  guard  the  Tree, 
A  Blossom,  a  Blossom  divine 
Grows  on  this  greenwood  of  mine  : 

What  may  this  Blossom  be  ? 

Name  this  Blossom  to  me  ! ' 

The  Master  smiled  ; 

For  the  Angels  answered  thus  : 
'  Our  tears  have  nourish'd  the  same, 
We  have  given  it  a  name 

That  seemeth  fit  to  us — 

We  have  called  it  Spiritus? 

The  Master  said  : 

'  This  Flower  no  Seed  shall  bear  ; 
But  hither  on  a  day 
My  beautiful  Son  shall  stray, 

And  shall  snatch  it  unaware, 

And  wreath  it  in  his  hair.' 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN  321 

The  Master  smiled  : 

'  The  Tree  shall  never  bear — 
Seedless  shall  perish  the  Tree, 
But  th$  Flower  my  Son's  shall  be  ; 

He  will  pluck  the  Flower  and  wear, 

Till  it  withers  in  his  hair  ! ' 


From  '  The  City  of  'Dream 

THE  Woof  that  I  weave  not 
Thou  wearest  and  weavest, 
The  Thought  I  conceive  not 

Thou  darkly  conceivest ; 
The  wind  and  the  rain, 

The  night  and  the  morrow, 
The  rapture  of  pain 

Fading  slowly  to  sorrow, 
The  dream  and  the  deed, 

The  calm  and  the  storm, 
The  flower  and  the  seed, 

Are  thy  Thought  and  thy  Form. 
I  die,  yet  depart  not, 

I  am  bound,  yet  soar  free, 
Thou  art  and  thou  art  not, 

And  ever  shalt  be  ! 


From  '  The  City  of  'Dream  ' 

The  Man 
X/ONDER  the  veil'd  Musician  sits,  His  feet 

I  Upon  the  pedals  of  dark  formless  suns, 
His  fingers  on  the  radiant  spheric  keys, 
His  face,  that  it  is  death  to  look  upon, 
MYST.  M 


322  ROBERT  BUCHANAN 

Misted  with  incense  rising  nebulous 
Out  of  abysmal  chaos  and  cohering 
Into  the  golden  flames  of  Life  and  Being  ! 
And  underneath  his  touch  Music  itself 
Grows  living,  heard  as  far  as  thought  can  creep 
Or  dream  can  soar  ;  or  that  Creation  stirs, 
And  drinks  the  sound,  and  sings ! — So  far  away 
He  sits,  the  Mystery,  wrapt  for  ever  round 
With  brightness  and  with  awe  and  melody ; 
Yet  even  here,  on  these  low-lying  shores, 
Lower  than  is  the  footstool  of  His  throne, 
We  hear  Him  and  adore  Him,  nay,  can  feel 
His  breath  as  vapour  round  our  mouths,  inhaling 
That  soul  within  the  soul  whereby  we  live 
From  that  divine  for-ever-beating  Heart 
Which  thrills  the  universe  with  Light  and  Love  ! 

The  Pilgrim 

So  far  away  He  dwells,  my  soul  indeed 
Scarcely  discerns  Him,  and  in  sooth  I  seek 
A  gentler  presence  and  a  nearer  Friend. 

The  Man 

So  far  ?    O  blind,  He  broods  beside  thee  now 
Here  in  this  silence,  with  His  eyes  on  thine  ! 

0  deaf,  His  voice  is  whispering  in  thine  ears 
Soft  as  the  breathing  of  the  slumberous  seas  ! 

The  Pilgrim 

1  see  not  and  I  hear  not ;  but  I  see 

Thine  eyes  burn  dimly,  like  a  corpse-light  seen 
Flickering  amidst  the  tempest ;   ard  I  hear 
Only  the  elemental  grief  and  pain 
Out  of  whose  shadow  I  would  creep  for  ever. 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN  323 

The  Man 
Thou  canst  not,  brother  ;   for  these,  too,  are  God  ! 

The  Pilgrim 

How  ?    Is  my  God,  then,  as  a  homeless  ghost 
Blown  this  way,  that  way,  with  the  elements  ? 

The  Man 

He  is  without  thee,  and  within  thee  too  ; 
Thy  living  breath,  and  that  which  drinks  thy  breath  : 
Thy  being,  and  the  bliss  beyond  thy  being. 

The  Pilgrim 

So  near,  so  far  ?    He  shapes  the  farthest  sun 
New-glimmering  on  the  farthest  fringe  of  space, 
Yet  stoops  and  with  a  leaf-light  finger-touch 
Reaches  my  heart  and  makes  it  come  and  go  ! 

The  Man 

Yea  ;  and  He  is  thy  heart  within  thy  heart, 
And  thou  a  portion  of  His  Heart  Divine  ! 


JAMES  RHOADES 

b.  1841 
0  Soul  of  Mine! 

AjAIN  that  Voice,  which  on  my  listening  ears 
Falls  like  star-music  filtering  through  the  spheres  : 
*  Know  this,  O  Man,  sole  root  of  sin  in  thee 
Is  not  to  know  thine  own  divinity  !  ' 

And  the  Voice  said  : 
'  Awake,  thou  drunken  and  yet  not  with  wine  i 

Arise  and  shine  ! 
Uplift  thee  from  the  dead  ! 


324  JAMES  RHOADES 

Cast  off  the  clinging  cerements  of  sin 
Fool-sense  hath  swathed  thee  in  ! 

Though  drugged  and  dulled 
With  every  evil  anodyne 

From  the  rank  soil  of  the  world's  waste-heap  culled, 
Thou  crown  and  pattern  of  the  eternal  Plan, 
Awake,  O  Soul  of  Man  ! 

O  Soul  of  Mine, 
Awake,  I  say,  and  know  thyself  divine  ! 

«  Behold,  behold  ! 
Thou  art  not  that  thou  deemest, 
Or  to  thy  fellows  seemest 

In  death-bound  body  hearsed  : 
But,  like  a  silver  summit 
Enshrouded 
And  o'er-clouded 
With  earth-born  vapour  vainest, 
So  gross  no  eye  may  plumb  it, 

E'en  as  of  old 

From  out  My  Heart  all-seeing — 
Ere  yet  in  body  dressed, 

Best  of  the  best, 
And  of  most  holy  holiest — 
Thou  soared'st  into  being, 
So,  godlike  as  at.  first 
I  made  thee,  thou  remainest. 

'  What  look  of  wonder  dawns  within  thine  eyes, 

O  soul  of  Mine  ? 

Hast  utterly  forgot  from  whence  art  risen  ? 
That  essence  rare  can  walls  of  space  imprison, 
Or  time  with  dull  decrepitude  surprise  ? 


JAMES  RHOADES  325 

Nay  now 

From  every  chain  thy  self  hath  forged  for  thee 
Thy  Self  can  set  thee  free  : 

Let  the  sea  burn, 
Let  fire  to  water  turn, 

But  thou 
Cleave  to  thy  birthright  and  thy  Royal  Line  ! 

'  For  lo  !  thou  hast  within  thee  to  dispel 

This  haunting  hell 
Of  error- teemed  night 

That  hides  thy  height, 
And  the  dread  rumour  and  malefic  breath 

Of  thy  doomed  enemy,  Death, 
Whose  birth-lair,  ignorance,  like  a  stagnant  pool, 

Of  its  accursed  kind 

Breeds  ague  of  unfaith,  and  terrors  blind 
Hatched  in  the  darkened  hollows  of  the  mind  ; 

Whence  too  arise 
Hallucinations,  lurid  phantasies, 
And  gross  desires,  with  every  vice  that  springs 

From  false  imaginings, 
And  vain  reliance  upon  visible  things — 

The  mad  misrule 

Of  creeds  and  deeds  idolatrous,  whereof 
Love  were  sworn  hater,  an  she  were  not  Love. 

'  These  in  their  hidden  dens 

Behoves  thee  with  pure  thoughts  to  cleave  or  cleanse. 
Aye,  and  unmask  those  counterfeits  of  bliss, 
Which  to  believe  thy  deep  undoing  is — 
Joys  which  but  lure  to  leave  thee, 
And  leave  to  grieve  thee, 


326  JAMES  RHOADES 

Not  of  the  fine-spun  stuff 
That  from  the  eternal  spool 
My  Hands  would  weave  thee  ! 

Enough,  enough  ! 
How  long  shall  they  deceive  thee, 

And  thou  still  dote 
Importuning  high  Heaven 

That  more  be  given 
With  cries  monotonous  as  the  wry-neck's  note  ? 

'  Such  pleasures  and  such  pain 

Alike  are  vain. 
Not  while  the  chords  of  thought  are  keyed  to  these 

Shalt  thou  find  rest  or  ease, 
Seeing  that  thyself  art  tuned  eternally 
To  That  which  only  is  without  alloy 

Pure  Life  and  Joy. 
Ah  !  would  thy  throbbing  shell 
Awake  the  Spirit's  whispered  harmonies, 

Bethink  thee  well 
That  every  trembling  hidden  string  must  be 

Vibrant  of  Me 

Who  am  the  Truth,  and  at  thy  centre  dwell — 
The  very  Breath  of  God  made  visible  ! 
For  know  the  myriad  miseries  of  mankind, 

And  the  long  reign  of  sin, 
Came  but  of  questing  outward,  for  to  find ' 
That  which  abides  within. 

'  But  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  sinning, 

O  Soul  of  Mine, 
Or  what  with  dying, 

Sorrow  and  sighing, 
Who  hast  nor  ending  nor  beginning, 


JAMES  RHOADES  327 

Nor  power  from  thy  perfection  to  decline  ? — 

Who  canst  not  guess 
From  the  gaunt  shadow  cast 
On  folly's  fog-belt,  but  shalt  learn  at  last, 
Thine  own  inalienable  loveliness ; 
Whom  sinless,  deathless,  I  created 

Of  elements  so  fine, 
That  with  my  Being  sated, 
In  glorious  garments  dight 

Of  Life  and  Light, 
Lowly,  yet  unafraid, 
With  an  eternity  of  joy  sufficed, 

The  Spirit's  Self  might  love  thee 
And  brood  above  thee, 

Pure  Maid 
And  Mother  of  the  indwelling  Christ ! 

'  Hereby  thou  comest  at  last  unto  thine  own, 

The  Heaven  of  Heaven  ! 

Self -wittingly  at  one 

With  Him  who  hath  the  Universe  for  throne, 
Who  wieldeth  the  stars  seven  ; 

Who  only  is 
The  Mystery  of  Mysteries 

Ineffable,  My  Son, 
My  sole-begotten  ere  the  worlds  began, 

Made  manifest  as  Man. 

'  And  the  grim  Nothingness  thou  namest  Death, 
With  all  his  shadowy  peers — 
Angers,  and  lusts,  and  fears — 
The  which  so  long  against  thy  peace  did  plot, 
Shall  be  remembered  not, 
Or,  shrivelling  at  a  breath, 


328  JAMES  RHOADES 

Be  known  as  naught ; 
Yea,  that  they  never  were 
Save  in  the  realm  of  things  that  but  appear, 
Creations  of  thine  unillumined  thought. 

1  Then  deem  not  Heaven  a  place, 
As  though  'twere  measurable  in  terms  of  sense — 

Length,  breadth,  circumference, 
Or  spread  throughout  illimitable  space. 
It  is  the  enthronization  of  the  soul 

Upon  the  heights  of  Being  ;  it  is  to  know  ; 
It  is  the  rapture  that  I  AM  is  so, 
Whatever  clouds  of  ignorance  up-roll. 

It  is  the  joy  of  joys, 
To  thrill  co-operant  with  the  primal  cause 

Of  the  unswerving  laws 
Which  hold  in  everlasting  equipoise 

Those  balances  of  God, 
The  visible  and  invisible  Universe  ; 

Wherein,  couldst  thou  but  measure  with  His  rod- 
With  undistorted  sight 

Couldst  read  aright — 
Nor  better  is,  nor  worse, 

But  only  best ; 

'Tis  from  thy  centre  to  thine  utmost  bound 
To  feel  that  thou  hast  found — 

That  thou  too  art 
From  all  to  all  eternity  a  part 

Of  that  which  never  was  in  speech  expressed, 
The  unresting  Order  which  is  more  than  rest. 

*  Who  is  he  prateth  of  Original  Sin  ? 

I  am  thine  Origin, 
And  I  thy  Kingdom  waiting  thee  within ! 


JAMES  RHOADES  329 

Seek  Me,  and  thou  hast  found  it, 
My  seas  of  Life  surround  it, 

My  Love's  o'er-arching  splendour 
For  canopy  hath  crowned  it. 
All  that  nor  eye  nor  ear 

Can  hear  or  see 

Lies  stored  within  its  boundless  empery. 
Not  there,  O  Soul  of  Mine, 

Shalt  thou  surrender, 
Torn  from  thy  tortured  breast, 
Those  whom  thou  heldest  here 
In  bonds  so  tender. 
Death  cannot  quell 
Their  residue  divine. 

Seek,  then,  within,  but  spurn  the  unhallowed  spell : 
In  light  unutterable  alive  they  shine, 
Leave  thou  to  Me  the  rest ! 

Have  I  not  said  ? 
And  shall  not  they  that  mourn  be  comforted  ? 

'  Yet  these  for  whom  thou  pinest, 

Thy  dearest  and  divinest, 

Are  but  rills  from  out  the  river 

Of  the  all-and-only  Giver  : 
Why  tarry,  then,  thy  thirst  in  Him  to  slake 
Who  flowed  through  earthen  channels  for  thy  sake, 
From  death-drought  to  deliver  ? 

Hadst  thou  but  eyes  for  seeing 

The  wells  of  thine  own  being, 
What  draughts  of  living  water  wouldst  thou  take  ! 

'  Ever,  then,  singly,  and  all  aims  above, — 

For  That  I  AM  is  thine,— 
Think  Oneness,  and  think  Worship,  and  think  Love ; 


330 


JAMES  RHOADES 


The  which,  translated  to  thine  outward  need 
(Sith  every  thought  must  still  creative  prove), 
Shall  limn  their  likeness  with  invisible  hand — 
As  the  sea-ripples  write  them  on  the  sand — 

In  bodily  form  and  deed. 
So  shalt  thou  make  for  thine  eternal  Meed  ; 
So  shalt  thou  fashion  thee.  O  Soul  of  Mine, 

A  glorious  shrine 

Wherein  to  house  thee,  and  wherethrough  to  shine — 
Or  here,  or  in  My  Mansions  crystalline — 
Serenely  changeless,  dazzlingly  divine  ! ' 


From  '  Out  of  the  Silence ' 

E!  in  the  vigils  of  the  night,  ere  sped 
The  first  bright  arrows  from  the  Orient  shed, 
The  heart  of  Silence  trembled  into  sound, 
And  out  of  Vastness  came  a  Voice,  which  said  : 

I  AM  alone  ;  thou  only  art  in  Me  : 

I  am  the  stream  of  Life  that  flows  through  thee  : 

I  comprehend  all  substance,  fill  all  space  : 

I  am  pure  Being,  by  whom  all  things  be. 

I  am  thy  Dawn,  from  darkness  to  release  : 
I  am  the  Deep,  wherein  thy  sorrows  cease  : 
Be  still !  be  still !   and  know  that  I  am  God  : 
Acquaint  thyself  with  Me,  and  be  at  peace  ! 

I  am  the  Silence  that  is  more  than  sound  : 
If  therewi thin  thou  lose  thee,  thou  art  found  : 
The  stormless,  shoreless  Ocean,  which  is  I — 
Thou  canst  not  breathe,  but  in  its  bosom  drowned, 


JAMES  RHOADES  331 

I  am  all  Love  :  there  is  naught  else  but  I  : 
I  am  all  Power  :  the  rest  is  phantasy  : 
Evil,  and  anguish,  sorrow,  death,  and  hell — 
These  are  the  fear-flung  shadows  of  a  lie. 

Arraign  not  Mine  Omnipotence,  to  say 
That  aught  beside  in  earth  or  heaven  hath  sway  ! 
The  powers  of  darkness  are  not :  that  which  is 
Abideth  :  these  but  vaunt  them  for  a  day. 

Know  thou  thyself  :   as  thou  hast  learned  of  Me, 
I  made  thee  three  in  one,  and  one  in  three — 
Spirit  and  Mind  and  Form,  immortal  Whole, 
Divine  and  undivided  Trinity. 

Seek  not  to  break  the  triple  bond  assigned  : 
Mind  sees  by  Spirit :   Body  moves  by  Mind  : 
Divorced  from  Spirit,  both  way-wildered  fall — 
Leader  and  led,  the  blindfold  and  the  blind. 

Look  not  without  thee  :   thou  hast  that  within, 
Makes  whole  thy  sickness,  impotent  thy  sin  : 
Survey  thy  forces,  rally  to  thyself  : 
That  which  thou  would'st  not  hath  no  power  to  win. 

I,  God,  enfold  thee  like  an  atmosphere  : 
Thou  to  thyself  wert  never  yet  more  near  : 
Think  not  to  shun  Me  :   whither  would'st  thou  fly  ? 
Nor  go  not  hence  to  seek  Me  :  I  am  here. 


332 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  HENRY  MYERS 

1843-1901 
Sunrise 

I OOK,  O  blinded  eyes  and  burning, 
JLiThink,  O  heart  amazed  with  yearning, 
Is  it  yet  beyond  thine  earning, 

That  delight  that  was  thine  all  ? — 
Wilful  eyes  and  un discerning, 
Heart  ashamed  of  bitter  learning, 
It  is  flown  beyond  returning, 

It  is  lost  beyond  recall. 

Who  with  prayers  has  overtaken 
Those  glad  hours  when  he  would  waken 
To  the  sound  of  branches  shaken 

By  an  early  song  and  wild, — 
When  the  golden  leaves  would  flicker, 
And  the  loving  thoughts  come  thicker, 
And  the  thrill  of  life  beat  quicker 

In  the  sweet  heart  of  the  child  ? 

Yet  my  soul,  tho'  thou  forsake  her, 
Shall  adore  thee,  till  thou  take  her, 
In  the  morning,  O  my  Maker, 

For  thine  oriflamme  unfurled  : 
For  the  lambs  beneath  their  mothers 
For  the  bliss  that  is  another's, 
For  the  beauty  of  my  brothers, 

For  the  wonder  of  the  world. 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  HENRY  MYERS     333 

From  above  us  and  from  under, 
In  the  ocean  and  the  thunder, 
Thou  preludest  to  the  wonder 

Of  the  Paradise  to  be  : 
For  a  moment  we  may  guess  thee 
From  thy  creatures  that  confess  thee 
When  the  morn  and  even  bless  thee, 

And  thy  smile  is  on  the  sea. 

Then  from  something  seen  or  heard, 
Whether  forests  softly  stirred, 


Or  the  speaking  of  a  word, 
Or  the  singing  of  a  bird, 

Cares  and  sorrows  cease  : 
For  a  moment  on  the  soul 
Falls  the  rest  that  maketh  whole, 

Falls  the  endless  peace. 

O  the  hush  from  earth's  annoys ! 

O  the  heaven,  O  the  joys 

Such  as  priest  and  singing-boys 

Cannot  sing  or  say  ! 
There  is  no  more  pain  and  crying, 
There  is  no  more  death  and  dying, 
As  for  sorrow  and  for  sighing, — 

These  shall  flee  away. 


334     FREDERICK  WILLIAM  HENRY  MYERS 


A  Cosmic  Outlook 

O  ACKWARD  ! — beyond  this  momentary  woe  ! — 
JDThine  was  the  world's  dim  dawn,  the  prime  emprize  , 

Eternal  aeons  gaze  thro'  these  sad  eyes, 
And  all  the  empyreal  sphere  hath  shaped  thee  so. 
Nay  !  all  is  living,  all  is  plain  to  know  ! 

This  rock  has  drunk  the  ray  from  ancient  skies ; 
Strike  !   and  the  sheen  of  that  remote  sunrise 
Gleams  in  the  marble's  unforgetful  glow. 
Thus  hath  the  cosmic  light  endured  the  same 

Ere  first  that  ray  from  Sun  to  Sirius  flew ; 
Aye,  and  in  heaven  I  heard  the  mystic  Name 

Sound,  and  a  breathing  of  the  Spirit  blew ; 
Lit  the  long  Past,  bade  shine  the  slumbering  flame 
And  all  the  Cosmorama  blaze  anew. 


Onward  !   thro'  baffled  hope,  thro'  bootless  prayer, 

With  strength  that  sinks,  with  high  task  half  begun, 
Things  great  desired,  things  lamentable  done, 
Vows  writ  in  water,  blows  that  beat  the  air. 
On  !  I  have  guessed  the  end  ;  the  end  is  fair. 

Not  with  these  weak  limbs  is  thy  last  race  run  ; 
Not  all  thy  vision  sets  with  this  low  sun  ; 
Not  all  thy  spirit  swoons  in  this  despair. 

Look  how  thine  own  soul,  throned  where  all  is  well, 

Smiles  to  regard  thy  days  disconsolate  ; 
Yea  ;  since  herself  she  wove  the  worldly  spell, 
Doomed  thee  for  lofty  gain  to  low  estate  ; — 
Sown  with  thy  fall  a  seed  of  glory  fell ; 
Thy  heaven  is  in  thee,  and  thy  will  thy  fate. 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  HENRY  MYERS     335 

Inward  !   aye,  deeper  far  than  love  or  scorn, 
Deeper  than  bloom  of  virtue,  stain  of  sin, 
Rend  thou  the  veil  and  pass  alone  within, 
Stand  naked  there  and  feel  thyself  forlorn  ! 
Nay  !  in  what  world,  then,  Spirit,  wast  thou  born  ? 
Or  to  what  World- Soul  art  thou  entered  in  ? 
Feel  the  Self  fade,  feel  the  great  life  begin, 
With  Love  re-rising  in  the  cosmic  morn. 

The  inward  ardour  yearns  to  the  inmost  goal ; 

The  endless  goal  is  one  with  the  endless  way  ; 
From  every  gulf  the  tides  of  Being  roll, 

From  every  zenith  burns  the  indwelling  day ; 
And  life  in  Life  has  drowned  thee  and  soul  in  Soul ; 
And  these  are  God,  and  thou  thyself  art  they. 


From  '  Saint  Paul' 

Eas  some  bard  on  isles  of  the  Aegean 
Lovely  and  eager  when  the  earth  was  young, 
Burning  to  hurl  his  heart  into  a  paean, 

Praise  of  the  hero  from  whose  loins  he  sprung  ; — 

He,  I  suppose,  with  such  a  care  to  carry, 
Wandered  disconsolate  and  waited  long, 

Smiting  his  breast,  wherein  the  notes  would  tarry, 
Chiding  the  slumber  of  the  seed  of  song  : 

Then  in  the  sudden  glory  of  a  minute 

Airy  and  excellent  the  proem  came, 
Rending  his  bosom,  for  a  god  was  in  it, 

Waking  the  seed,  for  it  had  burst  in  flame. 


336     FREDERICK  WILLIAM  HENRY  MYERS 

So  even  I  athirst  for  his  inspiring, 

I  who  have  talked  with  Him  forget  again, 

Yes,  many  days  with  sobs  and  with  desiring 
Offer  to  God  a  patience  and  a  pain  ; 

Then  thro'  the  mid  complaint  of  my  confession, 
Then  thro'  the  pang  and  passion  of  my  prayer, 

Leaps  with  a  start  the  shock  of  his  possession, 
Thrills  me  and  touches,  and  the  Lord  is  there. 

Lo  if  some  pen  should  write  upon  your  rafter 
Mene  and  mene  in  the  folds  of  flame, 

Think  you  could  any  memories  thereafter 
Wholly  retrace  the  couplet  as  it  came  ? 

Lo  if  some  strange  intelligible  thunder 

Sang  to  the  earth  the  secret  of  a  star, 
Scarce  could  ye  catch,  for  terror  and  for  wonder, 

Shreds  of  the  story  that  was  pealed  so  far  : — 

Scarcely  I  catch  the  words  of  his  revealing, 
Hardly  I  hear  Him,  dimly  understand, 

Only  the  Power  that  is  within  me  pealing 
Lives  on  my  lips  and  beckons  to  my  hand. 

Whoso  has  felt  the  Spirit  of  the  Highest 

Cannot  confound  nor  doubt  Him  nor  deny : 

Yea  with  one  voice,  O  world,  tho'  thou  deniest, 
Stand  thou  on  that  side,  for  on  this  am  I. 

Rather  the  earth  shall  doubt  when  her  retrieving 
Pours  in  the  rain  and  rushes  from  the  sod, 

Rather  than  he  for  whom  the  great  conceiving 
Stirs  in  his  soul  to  quicken  into  God. 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  HENRY  MYERS     337 

Aye,  tho'  thou  then  shouldst  strike  him  frorh  his  glory- 
Blind  and  tormented,  maddened  and  alone, 

Even  on  the  cross  would  he  maintain  his  story, 
Yes  and  in  hell  would  whisper,  I  have  known. 


A  Last  Appeal 

O  SOMEWHERE,  somewhere,  God  unknown, 
Exist  and  be  ! 

I  am  dying  ;   I  am  all  alone  ; 
I  must  have  Thee  ! 

God  !   God  !   my  sense,  my  soul,  my  all, 

Dies  in  the  cry  : — 
Saw'st  thou  the  faint  star  flame  and  falj  ? 

Ah  !  it  was  I. 


EDWARD  DOWDEN 

1843-1913 
By  the  Window 

STILL  deep  into  the  West  I  gazed  ;  the  light 
Clear,  spiritual,  tranquil  as  a  bird 
Wide-winged  that  soars  on  the  smooth  gale  and  sleeps, 
Was  it  from  sun  far-set  or  moon  unrisen  ? 
Whether  from  moon,  or  sun,  or  angel's  face 
It  held  my  heart  from  motion,  stayed  my  blood, 
Betrayed  each  rising  thought  to  quiet  death 
Along  the  blind  charm'd  way  to  nothingness, 
Lull'd  the  last  nerve  that  ached.    It  was  a  sky 
Made  for  a  man  to  waste  his  will  upon, 


338  EDWARD  DOWDEN 

To  be  received  as  wiser  than  all  toil. 


And  much  more  fair.    And  what  was  strife  of  men  ? 
And  what  was  time  ? 

Then  came  a  certain  thing. 
Are  intimations  for  the  elected  soul 
Dubious,  obscure,  of  unauthentic  power 
Since  ghostly  to  the  intellectual  eye, 
Shapeless  to  thinking  ?    Nay,  but  are  not  we 
Servile  to  words  and  an  usurping  brain, 
Infidels  of  our  own  high  mysteries, 
Until  the  senses  thicken  and  lose  the  world, 
Until  the  imprisoned  soul  forgets  to  see, 
And  spreads  blind  fingers  forth  to  reach  the  day, 
Which  once  drank  light,  and  fed  on  angels'  food  ? 

It  happened  swiftly,  came  and  straight  was  gone. 

One  standing  on  some  aery  balcony 
And  looking  down  upon  a  swarming  crowd 
Sees  one  man  beckon  to  him  with  finger-tip 
While  eyes  meet  eyes ;  he  turns  and  looks  again — 
The  man  is  lost,  and  the  crowd  sways  and  swarms. 
Shall  such  an  one  say,  '  Thus  'tis  proved  a  dream, 
And  no  hand  beckoned,  no  eyes  met  my  own  ? ' 
Neither  can  I  say  this.    There  was  a  hint, 
A  thrill,  a  summons  faint  yet  absolute, 
Which  ran  across  the  West ;  the  sky  was  touch'd, 
And  failed  not  to  respond.    Does  a  hand  pass 
Lightly  across  your  hair  ?  you  feel  it  pass 
Not  half  so  heavy  as  a  cobweb's  weight, 
Although  you  never  stir  ;  so  felt  the  sky 
Not  unaware  of  the  Presence,  so  my  soul 
Scarce  less  aware.    And  if  I  cannot  say 


EDWARD  DOWDEN  339 

The  meaning  and  monition,  words  are  weak 
Which  will  not  paint  the  small  wing  of  a  moth, 
Nor  bear  a  subtile  odour  to  the  brain, 
And  much  less  serve  the  soul  in  her  large  needs. 
I  cannot  tell  the  meaning,  but  a  change 
Was  wrought  in  me  ;  it  was  not  the  one  man 
Who  came  to  the  luminous  window  to  gaze  forth, 
And  who  moved  back  into  the  darkened  room 
With  awe  upon  his  heart  and  tender  hope  ; 
From  some  deep  well  of  life  tears  rose  ;  the  throng 
Of  dusty  cares,  hopes,  pleasures,  prides  fell  off, 
And  from  a  sacred  solitude  I  gazed 
Deep,  deep  into  the  liquid  eyes  of  Life., 


Awakening 

WITH  brain  o'erworn,  with  heart  a  summer  clod, 
With  eye  so  practised  in  each  form  around, — 
And  all  forms  mean, — to  glance  above  the  ground 
Irks  it,  each  day  of  many  days  we  plod, 
Tongue-tied  and  deaf,  along  life's  common  road. 
But  suddenly,  we  know  not  how,  a  sound 
Of  living  streams,  an  odour,  a  flower  crowned 
With  dew,  a  lark  upspringing  from  the  sod, 
And  we  awake.    O  joy  and  deep  amaze  ! 
Beneath  the  everlasting  hills  we  stand, 
We  hear  the  voices  of  the  morning  seas, 
And  earnest  prophesyings  in  the  land, 
While  from  the  open  heaven  leans  forth  at  gaze 
The  encompassing  great  cloud  of  witnesses. 


340  EDWARD  DOWDEN 

Communion 

I ORD,  I  have  knelt  and  tried  to  pray  to-night, 
I   i  But  Thy  love  came  upon  me  like  a  sleep, 
And  all  desire  died  out ;  upon  the  deep 
Of  Thy  mere  love  I  lay,  each  thought  in  light 
Dissolving  like  the  sunset  clouds,  at  rest 
Each  tremulous  wish,  and  my  strength  weakness,  sweet 
As  a  sick  boy  with  soon  o'erwearied  feet 
Finds,  yielding  him  unto  his  mother's  breast 
To  weep  for  weakness  there.    I  could  not  pray, 
But  with  closed  eyes  I  felt  Thy  bosom's  love 
Beating  toward  mine,  and  then  I  would  not  move 
Till  of  itself  the  joy  should  pass  away  ; 
At  last  my  heart  found  voice, — '  Take  me,  O  Lord, 
And  do  with  me  according  to  Thy  word.' 


A  JVew  Hymn  for  Solitude 

{FOUND  Thee  in  my  heart,  O  Lord, 
As  in  some  secret  shrine ; 
I  knelt,  I  waited  for  Thy  word, 
I  joyed  to  name  Thee  mine. 

I  feared  to  give  myself  away 

To  that  or  this  ;   beside 
Thy  altar  on  my  face  I  lay, 

And  in  strong  need  I  cried. 

Those  hours  are  past.    Thou  art  not  mine, 

And  therefore  I  rejoice, 
I  wait  within  no  holy  shrine, 

I  faint  not  for  the  voice. 


i 


EDWARD  DOWDEN  341 

In  Thee  we  live  ;   and  every  wind 

Of  heaven  is  Thine  ;   blown  free 
To  west,  to  east,  the  God  unshrined 

Is  still  discovering  me. 


The  Secret  of  the  Vniverse 

AN    ODE 

(By  a  Western  Spinning  Dervish) 

SPIN,  I  spin,  around,  around, 

And  close  my  eyes, 

And  let  the  bile  arise 

From  the  sacred  region  of  the  soul's  Profound  ; 
Then  gaze  upon  the  world  ;  how  strange  !   how  new  ! 

The  earth  and  heaven  are  one, 

The  horizon-line  is  gone, 

The  sky  how  green  !  the  land  how  fair  and  blue  ! 
Perplexing  items  fade  from  my  large  view, 
And  thought  which  vexed  me  with  its  false  and  true 
Is  swallowed  up  in  Intuition  ;  this, 

This  is  the  sole  true  mode 

Of  reaching  God, 

And  gaining  the  universal  synthesis      * 
Which  makes  All — One ;   while  fools  with  peering  eyes 
Dissect,  divide,  and  vainly  analyse. 
So  round,  and  round,  and  round  again  ,1 
How  the  whole  globe  swells  within  my  brain, 
The  stars  inside  my  lids  appear. 
The  murmur  of  the  spheres  I  hear 
Throbbing  and  beating  in  each  ear  ; 
Right  in  my  navel  I  can  feel 
The  centre  of  the  world's  great  wheel. 


342 


EDWARD  DOWDEN 


Ah  peace  divine,  bliss  dear  and  deep, 

No  stay,  no  stop, 

Like  any  top 

Whirling  with  swiftest  speed,  I  sleep. 
O  ye  devout  ones  round  me  coming, 
Listen  !   I  think  that  I  am  humming  ; 

No  utterance  of  the  servile  mind 
With  poor  chop-logic  rules  agreeing 

Here  shall  ye  find, 

But  inarticulate  burr  of  man's  unsundered  being. 
Ah,  could  we  but  devise  some  plan, 
Some  patent  jack  by  which  a  man 
Might  hold  himself  ever  in  harmony 
With  the  great  whole,  and  spin  perpetually, 

As  all  things  spin 

Without,  within, 
As  Time  spins  off  into  Eternity, 
And  Space  into  the  inane  Immensity, 
And  the  Finite  into  God's  Infinity, 

Spin-,  spin,  spin,  spin. 


The  Initiation 

UNDER  the  flaming  wings  of  cherubim 
I  moved  toward  that  high  altar.    O,  the  hour  ! 
And  the  light  waxed  intenser,  and  the  dim 

Low  edges  of  the  hills  and  the  grey  sea 
Were  caught  and  captur'd  by  the  present  Power, 
My  sureties  and  my  witnesses  to  be. 

Then  the  light  drew  me  in.    Ah,  perfect  pain  ! 

Ah,  infinite  moment  of  accomplishment ! 
Thou  terror  of  pure  joy,  with  neither  wane 

Nor  waxing,  but  long  silence  and  sharp  air 


EDWARD  DOWDEN  343 

As  womb-forsaking  babes  breathe.    Hush  !   the  event 
Let  him  who  wrought  Love's  marvellous  things  declare. 

Shall  I  who  fear'd  not  joy,  fear  grief  at  all  ? 

I  on  whose  mouth  Life  laid  his  sudden  lips 
Tremble  at  Death's  weak  kiss,  and  not  recall 

That  sundering  from  the  flesh,  the  flight  from  time, 
The  judgements  stern,  the  clear  apocalypse, 

The  lightnings,  and  the  Presences  sublime. 

How  came  I  back  to  earth  ?    I  know  not  how, 

Nor  what  hands  led  me,  nor  what  words  were  said. 

Now  all  things  are  made  mine, — joy,  sorrow ;   now 
I  know  my  purpose  deep,  and  can  refrain ; 

I  walk  among  the  living,  not  the  dead  ; 
My  sight  is  purged  ;   I  love  and  pity  men. 


Loves  Lord 

WHEN  weight  of  all  the  garner'd  years 
Bows  me,  and  praise  must  find  relief 
In  harvest-song,  and  smiles  and  tears 
Twist  in  the  band  that  binds  my  sheaf  ; 

Thou  known  Unknown,  dark,  radiant  sea 
In  whom  we  live,  in  whom  we  move, 

My  spirit  must  lose  itself  in  Thee, 

Crying  a  name — Life,  Light,  or  Love. 


344 
FREDERICK  WILLIAM  ORDE  WARD 

b.  1843 

The  Beatific  Vision 

BETWIXT  the  dawning  and  the  day  it  came 
Upon  me  like  a  spell, 

While  tolled  a  distant  bell, 
A  wondrous  vision  but  without  a  name 
In  pomp  of  shining  mist  and  shadowed  flame, 

Exceeding  terrible ; 
Before  me  seemed  to  open  awful  Space, 

And  sheeted  tower  and  spire 

With  forms  of  shrouded  'tire 
Arose  and  beckoned  with  unearthly  grace,- 
I  felt  a  Presence  though  I  saw  no  face 

But  the  dark  rolling  fire. 

And  then  a  Voice  as  sweet  and  soft  as  tears 

But  yet  of  gladness  part, 

Thrilled  through  my  inmost  heart, 
Which  told  the  secret  of  the  solemn  years 
And  swept  away  the  clouds  of  gloomy  fears, 

The  riddles  raised  by  art ; 
Till  all  my  soul  was  bathed  with  trembling  joy 

And  lost  in  dreadful  bliss, 

As  at  God's  very  kiss, 

While  the  earth  shrivelled  up  its  broken  toy, 
And  like  a  rose  the  heavens  no  longer  coy 

Laid  bare  their  blue  abyss. 

The  giant  wheels  and  all  the  hidden  springs 

Of  this  most  beauteous  globe, 

Which  man  may  never  probe, 
Burst  on  me  with  a  blaze  of  angel  wings 
And  each  bright  orb  that  like  a  diamond  clings 

To  the  veiled  Father's  robe  ; 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  ORDE  WARD      345 

I  saw  with  vision  that  was  more  than  sight, 

The  levers  and  the  laws 

That  fashion  stars  as  straws 
And  link  with  perfect  loveliness  of  right, 
In  the  pure  duty  that  is  pure  delight 

And  to  one  Centre  draws. 

I  knew  with  sudden  insight  all  was  best, 

The  passion  and  the  pain, 

The  searchings  that  seem  vain 
But  lead  if  by  dim  blood-stained  steps  to  Rest, 
And  only  are  the  beatings  of  God's  Breast 

Beneath  the  iron  chain  ; 
I  knew  each  work  was  blessed  in  its  place, 

The  eagle  and  the  dove, 

While  Nature  was  the  glove 
Of  that  dear  Hand  which  everywhere  we  trace, 
I  felt  a  Presence  though  I  saw  no  face, 

And  it  was  boundless  Love. 

Redemption 

AX  living  creatures'  pain, 
The  sufferings  of  the  lowliest  thing  that  creeps 
Or  flies  a  moment  ere  it  sinks  and  sleeps, 
Are  too  Redemption's  tears  and  not  in  vain — 
For  nothing  idly  weeps. 
Earth  is  through  these  fulfilling  that  it  must 
As  in  Christ's  own  eternal  Passion  chain, 
And  flowering  from  the  dust. 

The  driven  and  drudging  ass 
Crushed  by  the  bondage  of  its  bitter  round. 
Repeats  the  Gospel  in  that  narrow  bound; 
God  is  reflected  in  the  blade  of  grass, 


346     FREDERICK  WILLIAM  ORDE  WARD 

And  there  is  Calvary's  ground. 
O  not  an  insect  or  on  leaf  or  sod 
But  in  its  measure  is  a  looking-glass, 
And  shows  Salvation's  God. 

All  thus  are  carrying  on, 

And  do  work  out,  the  one  Redemption's  tale  ; 

Each  is  a  little  Christ  on  hill  or  dale, 

The  hell  where  Mercy's  light  has  never  shone 

Is  with  that  Mercy  pale, 

And  though  flesh  turns  from  agony  they  dread, 

Even  as  they  groan  and  travail  it  is  gone — 

Love  riseth  from  the  dead. 

ARTHUR  WILLIAM  EDGAR  O'SHAUGHNESSY 

„,.      _  1844-1881 

The  Lover 

I  WAS  not  with  the  rest  at  play ; 
My  brothers  laughed  in  joyous  mood  : 
But  I — I  wandered  far  away 

Into  the  fair  and  silent  wood ; 

And  with  the  trees  and  flowers  I  stood, 
As  dumb  and  full  of  dreams  as  they : 
— For  One  it  seemed  my  whole  heart  knew, 

Or  One  my  heart  had  known  long  since, 
Was  peeping  at  me  through  the  dew ; 
And  with  bright  laughter  seemed  to  woo 

My  beauty,  like  a  Fairy  prince. 

Oh,  what  a  soft  enchantment  filled 
The  lonely  paths  and  places  dim  ! 

It  was  as  though  the  whole  wood  thrilled, 
And  a  dumb  joy,  because  of  him, 
Weighed  down  the  lilies  tall  and  slim, 

And  made  the  roses  blush,  and  stilled 


ARTHUR  W.  E.  O'SHAUGHNESSY        347 

The  great  wild  voices  in  half  fear  : 

It  was  as  though  his  smile  did  hold 

All  things  in  trances  manifold  ; 
And  in  each  place  as  he  dre*w  near 

The  leaves  were  touched  and  turned  to  gold.  .  .  . 

But  more  and  more  he  seemed  to  seek 
My  heart  :   till,  dreaming  of  all  this, 

I  thought  one  day  to  hear  him  speak, 
Or  feel,  indeed,  his  sudden  kiss 
Bind  me  to  some  great  unknown  bliss : 

Then  there  would  stay  upon  my  cheek 
Full  many  a  light  and  honied  stain, 
That  told  indeed  how  I  had  lain 

Deep  in  the  flowery  banks  all  day ; 
And  round  me  too  there  would  remain 

Some  strange  wood-blossom's  scent  alway.  .  .  . 

— O,  the  incomparable  love 

Of  him,  my  Lover  ! — O,  to  tell 
Its  way  and  measure  were  above 

The  throbbing  chords  of  speech  that  swell 

Within  me  ! — Doth  it  not  excel 
All  other,  sung  or  written  of  ? 
Yea  now,  O  all  ye  fair  mankind — 

Consider  well  the  gracious  line 
Of  those  your  lovers ;   call  to  mind 
Their  love  of  you,  and  ye  shall  find 

Not  one  among  them  all  like  mine. 

It  seems  as  though,  from  calm  to  calm, 

A  whole  fair  age  had  passed  me  by, 
Since  first  this  Lover,  through  a  charm 

Of  flowers,  wooed  so  tenderly, 

I  had  no  fear  of  drawing  nigh, 
Nor  knew,  indeed,  that — with  an  arm 


348        ARTHUR  W.  E.  O'SHAUGHNESSY 

Closed  round  and  holding  me — he  led 
My  eager  way  from  sight  to  sight 
Of  all  the  summer  magic — right 

To  where  himself  had  surely  spread 
Some  pleasant  snare  for  my  delight. 

And  now,  in  an  eternal  sphere, 
Beneath  one  flooding  look  of  his — 

Wherein,  all  beautiful  and  dear, 
That  endless  melting  gold  that  is 
His  love,  with  flawless  memories 

Grows  ever  richer  and  more  clear — 
My  life  seems  held,  as  some  faint  star 
Beneath  its  sun  :   and  through  the  far 

Celestial  distances  for  miles, 
To  where  vast  mirage  futures  are, 

I  trace  the  gilding  of  his  smiles.  .  .  . 

For,  one  by  one,  e'en  as  I  rise, 

And  feel  the  pure  Ethereal 
Refining  all  before  my  eyes  : 

Whole  beauteous  worlds  material 

Are  seen  to  enter  gradual 
The  great  transparent  paradise 
Of  this  my  dream  ;   and,' all  revealed, 

To  break  upon  me  more  and  more 
Their  inward  singing  souls,  and  yield 
A  wondrous  secret  half  concealed 

In  all  their  loveliness  before. 

And  so,  when,  through  unmeasured  days, 
The  far  effulgence  of  the  sea 

Is  holding  me  in  long  amaze, 
And  stealing  with  strange  ecstasy 
My  heart  all  opened  silently  ; — 

There  reach  me,  from  among  the  sprays, 


ARTHUR  W.  E.  O'SHAUGHNESSY         349 

Ineffable  faint  words  that  sing 
Within  me, — how,  for  me  alone, 

One  who  is  lover — who  is  King, 

Hath  dropt,  as  'twere  a  precious  stone, 
That  sea — a  symbol  of  his  throne.  .  .  . 

And,  through  the  long  charmed  solitude 

Of  throbbing  moments,  whose  strong  link 
Is  one  delicious  hope  pursued 

From  trance  to  trance,  the  while  I  think 

And  know  myself  upon  the  brink 
Of  His  eternal  kiss, — endued 
With  part  of  him,  the  very  wind 

Hath  power  to  ravish  me  in  sips 
Or  long  mad  wooings  that  unbind 
My  hair, — wherein  I  truly  find 

The  magic  of  his  unseen  lips. 

And,  so  almighty  is  the  thrill 

I  feel  at  many  a  faintest  breath 
Or  stir  of  sound — as  'twere  a  rill 

Of  joy  traversing  me,  or  death 

Dissolving  all  that  hindereth 
My  thought  from  power  to  fulfil 
Some  new  embodiment  of  bliss, — 

I  do  consume  with  the  immense 
Delight  as  of  some  secret  kiss, 

And  am  become  like  one  whose  sense 

Is  used  with  raptures  too  intense  !  .  .  . 

Yea,  mystic  consummation  !   yea, 
O  wondrous  suitor, — whosoe'er 

Thou  art ;   that  in  such  mighty  way, 
In  distant  realms,  athwart  the  air 
And  lands  and  seas,  with  all  things  fair 

Hast  wooed  me  even  till  this  day ; — 


350        ARTHUR  W.  E.  O'SHAUGHNESSY 

It  seems  thou  drawest  near  to  me  ; 
Or  I,  indeed,  so  nigh  to  thee, 

I  catch  rare  breaths  of  a  delight 
From  thy  most  glorious  country,  see 

Its  distant  glow  upon  some  height.  .  .  . 

O  thou  my  Destiny  !    O  thou 

My  own — my  very  Love — my  Lord  ! 

Whom  from  the  first  day  until  now 
My  heart,  divining,  hath  adored 
So  perfectly  it  hath  abhorred 

The  tie  of  each  frail  human  vow — 

O  I  would  whisper  in  thine  ear — 
Yea,  may  I  not,  once,  in  the  clear 

Pure  night,  when,  only,  silver  shod 
The  angels  walk  ? — thy  name,  I  fear 

And  love,  and  tremble  saying — GOD  ! 


En  Soph 

Prayer  of  the  Soul  on  entering  Human  Life 

EN  SOPH,  uncomprehended  in  the  thought 
Of  man  or  angel,  having  all  that  is 
In  one  eternity  of  Being  brought 

Into  a  moment :   yet  with  purposes, 
Whence  emanate  those  lower  worlds  of  Time, 
And  Force,  and  Form,  where  man,  with  one  wing  caught 
In  clogging  earth,  angels  in  freer  clime, 

From  partial  blindness  into  partial  sight, 
Strive,  yearn,  and,  with  an  inward  hope  sublime, 

Rise  ever  ;   or,  mastered  by  down-dragging  might, 

And  groping  weakly  with  an  ill-trimmed  light, 
Sink,  quenched  ; 


ARTHUR  W.  E.  O'SHAUGHNESSY        351 

En  Soph  was  manifest,  as  dim 
And  awful  as  upon  Egyptian  throne 

Osiris  sits  ;  but  splendour  covered  Him  ; 
And  circles  of  the  Sephiroth  tenfold, 
Vast  and  mysterious,  intervening  rolled. 

And  lo  !   from  all  the  outward  turning  zones, 

Before  Him  came  the  endless  stream  of  souls 
Unborn,  whose  destiny  is  to  descend 

And  enter  by  the  lowest  gate  of  being. 
And  each  one  coming,  saw,  on  written  scrolls 

And  semblances  that  he  might  comprehend, 
The  things  of  Life  and  Death  and  Fate — which  seeing, 

Each  little  soul,  as  quivering  like  a  flame 
It  paled  before  that  splendour,  stood  and  prayed 

A  piteous,  fervent  prayer  against  the  shame 
And  ill  of  living,  and  would  so  have  stayed 

A  flame-like  emanation  as  before, 
Unsullied  and  untried.     Then,  as  he  ceased 

The  tremulous  supplication,  full  of  sore 
Foreboding  agony  to  be  released 

From  going -on  the  doubtful  pilgrimage 
Of  earthly  hope  and  sorrow,  for  reply 

A  mighty  angel  touched  his  sight,  to  close, 
Or  nearly  close,  his  spiritual  eye, 

So  he  should  look  on  luminous  things  like  those 
No  more  till  he  had  learned  to  live  and  die. 

And  when  the  pure  bright  flame,  my  soul,  at  last 
Passed  there  in  turn,  it  flickered  like  them  all ; 

But  oh  !   with  some  surpassing  sad  forecast 

Of  more  than  common  pains  that  should  befall 

The  man  whose  all  too  human  heart  has  bled 
With  so  much  love  and  anguish  until  now, 


352        ARTHUR  W.  E.  O'SHAUGHNESSY 

And  has  not  broken  yet,  and  is  not  dead, 

And  shaken  as  a  leaf  in  autumn  late, 
Tormented  by  the  wind,  my  soul  somehow 

Found  speech  and  prayed  like  this  against  my  Fate : 

The  pure  flame  pent  within  the  fragile  form 

Will  writhe  with  inward  torments ;   blind  desires, 
Seizing,  will  whirl  me  in  their  frenzied  storm, 

Clutching  at  shreds  of  heaven  and  phantom  fires. 
A  voice,  in  broken  ecstasies  of  song, 

Awakening  mortal  ears  with  its  high  pain, 
Will  leave  an  echoing  agony  along 

The  stony  ways  and  o'er  the  sunless  plain, 
While  men  stand  listening  in  a  silent  throng. 

And  all  the  silences  of  life  and  death, 

Like  doors  closed  on  the  thing  my  spirit  seeks, 
Importuning  each  in  turn,  will  freeze  the  breath 

Upon  my  lips,  appal  the  voice  that  speaks ; 
Until  the  silence  of  a  human  heart 

At  length,  when  I  have  wept  there  all  my  tears, 
Poured  out  my  passion,  given  my  stainless  part 

Of  heaven  to  hear  what  maybe  no  man  hears, 
Will  work  a  woe  that  never  can  depart. 

Oh,  let  me  not  be  parted  from  the  light, 

Oh,  send  me  not  to  where  the  outer  stars 
Tread  their  uncertain  orbits,  growing  less  bright, 

Cycle  by  cycle  ;   where,  through  narrowing  bars, 
The  soul  looks  up  and  scarcely  sees  the  throne 

It  fell  from ;  where  the  stretched-out  Hand  that  guides 
On  to  the  end,  in  that  dull  slackening  zone 

Reaches  but  feebly  ;   and  where  man  abides, 
And  finds  out  heaven  with  his  heart  alone. 


ARTHUR  W.  E.  O'SHAUGHNESSY        353 

I  fear  to  live  the  life  that  shall  be  mine 

Down  in  the  half  lights  of  that  wandering  world, 
Mid  ruined  angels'  souls  that  cease  to  shine, 

Where  fragments  of  the  broken  stars  are  hurled, 
Quenched  to  the  ultimate  dark.    Shall  I  believe, 

Remembering,  as  of  some  exalted  dream, 
The  life  of  flame,  the  splendour  that  I  leave  ? 

For,  between  life  and  death,  shall  it  not  seem 
The  fond  false  hope  my  shuddering  soul  would  weave  ?. . . 

So  prayed  I,  feeling  even  as  I  prayed 

Torments  and  fever  of  a  strange  unrest 
Take  hold  upon  my  spirit,  fain  to  have  stayed 

In  the  eternal  calm,  and  ne'er  essayed 
The  perilous  strife,  the  all  too  bitter  test 

Of  earthly  sorrows,  fearing — and  ah  !   too  well — 
To  be  quite  ruined  in  some  grief  below, 

And  ne'er  regain  the  heaven  from  which  I  fell. 
But  then  the  angel  smote  my  sight — 'twas  so 

I  woke  into  this  world  of  love  and  woe. 


GERARD  MANLEY  HOPKINS 

1844-1889 
The  Habit  of  Perfection 

T7  LECTED  Silence,  sing  to  me 
LjAnd  beat  upon  my  whorled  ear, 
Pipe  me  to  pastures  still  and  be 
The  music  that  I  care  to  hear. 

MYST.  N 


354  GERARD  MANLEY  HOPKINS 

Shape  nothing,  lips  ;    be  lovely-dumb  : 
It  is  the  shut,  the  curfew  sent 
From  there  where  all  surrenders  come 
Which  only  makes  you  eloquent. 


Be  shelled,  eyes,  with  double  dark 
And  find  the  uncreated  light  : 
This  ruck  and  reel  which  you  remark 
Coils,  keeps,  and  teases  simple  sight. 


Palate,  the  hutch  of  tasty  lust, 
Desire  not  to  be  rinsed  with  wine  : 
The  can  must  be  so  sweet,  the  crust 
So  fresh  that  come  in  fasts  divine  ! 


Nostrils,  your  careless  breath  that  spend 
Upon  the  stir  and  keep  of  pride, 
What  relish  shall  the  censers  send 
Along  the  sanctuary  side  ! 

O  feel-of-primrose  hands,  O  feet 
That  want  the  yield  of  plushy  sward, 
But  you  shall  walk  the  golden  street, 
And  you  unhouse  and  house  the  Lord. 

And,  Poverty,  be  thou  the  bride 
And  now  the  marriage  feast  begun, 
And  lily-coloured  clothes  provide 
Your  spouse  not  laboured-at,  nor  spun. 


GERARD  MANLEY  HOPKINS  355 

God's  Grandeur 

TTHE  world  is  charged  with  the  grandeur  of  God. 
J.  It  will  flame  out,  like  shining  from  shook  foil, 
It  gathers  to  a  greatness  like  the  ooze  of  oil 
Crushed.    Why  do  men  then  now  not  reck  His  rod  ? 
Generations  have  trod,  have  trod,  have  trod  ; 

And  all  is  seared  with  trade  ;    bleared,  smeared  with 

toil ; 
And  bears  man's  smudge,  and  shares  man's  smell ;  the 

soil 

Is  bare  now,  nor  can  foot  feel  being  shod. 
And  for  all  this,  nature  is  never  spent ; 

There  lives  the  dearest  freshness  deep  down  things ; 
And  though  the  last  lights  from  the  black  west  went, 

Oh,  morning  at  the  brown  brink  eastwards  springs — 
Because  the  Holy  Ghost  over  the  bent 

World  broods  with  warm  breast,  and  with,  ah,  bright 
wings. 


Mary  Mother  of  Divine  Grace,  compared 
to  the  Atr  we  breathe 

WILD  air,  world-mothering  air, 
Nestling  me  everywhere, 
That  each  eyelash  or  hair 
Girdles ;   goes  home  betwixt 
The  fleeciest,  frailest-flixed 
Snow-flake  ;   that 's  fairly  mixed 
With  riddles,  and  is  rife 
In  every  least  thing's  life  ; 
This  needful,  never  spent 
And  nursing  element ; 


356  GERARD  MANLEY  HOPKINS 

My  more  than  meat  and  drink, 
My  meal  at  every  wink  ; 
This  air  which  by  life's  law 
My  lung  must  draw  and  draw 
Now,  but  to  breathe  its  praise, — 
.  Minds  me  in  many  ways 
Of  her  who  not  only 
Gave  God's  infinity, 
Dwindled  to  infancy, 
Welcome  in  womb  and  breast, 
Birth,  milk,  and  all  the  rest, 
But  mothers  each  new  grace 
That  does  now  reach  our  race, 
Mary  Immaculate, 
Merely  a  woman,  yet 
Whose  presence,  power  is 
Great  as  no  goddess's 
Was  deemed,  dreamed  ;   who 
This  one  work  has  to  do — 
Let  all  God's  glory  through, 
God's  glory,  which  would  go 
Thro'  her  and  from  her  flow 
Off,  and  no  way  but  so. 

I  say  that  we  are  wound 
With  mercy  round  and  round 
As  if  with  air  :  the  same 
Is  Mary,  more  by  name, 
She,  wild  web,  wondrous  robe, 
Mantles  the  guilty  globe. 
Since  God  has  let  dispense 
Her  prayers  His  providence. 
Nay,  more  than  almoner, 
The  sweet  alms'  self  is  her 
And  men  are  meant  to  share 
Her  life  as  life  does  air. 


GERARD  MANLEY  HOPKINS  357 

If  I  have  understood, 
She  holds  high  motherhood 
Towards  all  our  ghostly  good, 
And  plays  in  grace  her  part 
About  man's  beating  heart, 
Laying  like  air's  fine  flood 
The  death-dance  in  his  blood  ; 
Yet  no  part  but  what  will 
Be  Christ  our  Saviour  still. 
Of  her  flesh  He  took  flesh  : 
He  does  take,  fresh  and  fresh, 
Though  much  the  mystery  how, 
Not  flesh  but  spirit  now, 
And  wakes,  O  marvellous ! 
New  Nazareths  in  us, 
Where  she  shall  yet  conceive 
Him,  morning,  noon,  and  eve ; 
New  Bethlems,  and  He  born 
There,  evening,  noon  and  morn. 
Bethlem  or  Nazareth, 
Men  here  may  draw  like  breath 
More  Christ,  and  baffle  death  ; 
Who,  born  so,  comes  to  be 
New  self,  and  nobler  me 
In  each  one,  and  each  one 
More  makes,  when  all  is  done, 
Both  God's  and  Mary's  son. 

Again  look  overhead 
How  air  is  azured. 
O  how  !    Nay  do  but  stand 
Where  you  can  lift  your  hand 
Skywards :  rich,  rich  it  laps 
Round  the  four  finger-gaps. 
Yet  such  a  sapphire-shot 


358  GERARD  MANLEY  HOPKINS 

Charged,  steeped  sky  will  not 

Stain  light.    Yea,  mark  you  this  : 

It  does  no  prejudice. 

The  glass-blue  days  are  those 

When  every  colour  glows, 

Each  shape  and  shadow  shows. 

Blue  be  it :  this  blue  heaven 

The  seven  or  seven  times  seven 

Hued  sunbeam  will  transmit 

Perfect,  nor  alter  it. 

Or  if  there  does  some  soft 

On  things  aloof,  aloft, 

Bloom  breathe,  that  one  breath  more 

Earth  is  the  fairer  for. 

Whereas  did  air  not  make 

This  bath  of  blue  and  slake 

This  fire,  the  sun  would  shake 

A  blear  and  blinding  ball 

With  blackness  bound,  and  all 

The  thick  stars  round  him  roll, 

Flashing  like  flecks  of  coal, 

Quartz-fret,  or  sparks  of  salt 

In  grimy  vasty  vault. 

So  God  was  God  of  old  ; 
A  mother  came  to  mould 
Those  limbs  like  ours  which  are, 
What  must  make  our  daystar 
Much  dearer  to  mankind  : 
Whose  glory  bare  would  blind 
Or  less  would  win  man's  mind. 
Through  her  we  may  see  Him 
Made  sweeter,  not  made  dim, 
And  her  hand  leaves  His  light 
Sifted  to  suit  our  sight. 


GERARD  MANLEY  HOPKINS  359 

Be  thou,  then,  O  them  dear 
Mother,  my  atmosphere  ; 
My  happier  world  wherein 
To  wend  and  meet  no  sin  ; 
Above  me,  round  me  lie 
Fronting  my  froward  eye 
With  sweet  and  scarless  sky ; 
Stir  in  my  ears,  speak  there 
Of  God's  love,  O  live  air, 
Of  patience,  penance,  prayer  ; 
World-mothering  air,  air  wild, 
Wound  with  thee,  in  thee  isled, 
Fold  home,  fast  fold  thy  child. 


EDWARD  CARPENTER 

b.  i844 
By  the  Shore 

AjL  night  by  the  shore. 
The    obscure   water,    the   long    white    lines    of 
advancing  foam,  the  rustle  and  thud,  the  panting 
sea-breaths,  the  pungent  sea-smell, 
The  great  slow  air  moving  from  the  distant  horizon, 
the  immense  mystery  of  space,  and  the  soft  canopy 
of  the  clouds  1 

The  swooning  thuds  go  on — the  drowse  of  ocean  goes 

on  : 
The  long  inbreaths — the  short  sharp  outbreaths — the 

silence  between. 

I  am  a  bit  of  the  shore  :  the  waves  feed  upon  me,  they 

come  pasturing  over  me  ; 
I  am  glad,  O  waves,  that  you  come  pasturing  over  me. 


360  EDWARD  CARPENTER 

I  am  a  little  arm  of  the  sea  :  the  same  tumbling 
swooning  dream  goes  on — I  feel  the  waves  all 
around  me,  I  spread  myself  through  them. 

How  delicious !  I  spread  and  spread.  The  waves 
tumble  through  and  over  me — they  dash  through 
my  face  and  hair. 

The  night  is  dark  overhead  :  I  do  not  see  them,  but 
I  touch  them  and  hear  their  gurgling  laughter. 

The  play  goes  on  ! 

The  strange  expanding  indraughts  go  on  ! 

Suddenly  I  am  the  Ocean  itself  :   the  great  soft  wind 

creeps  over  my  face. 

I  am  in  love  with  the  wind — I  reach  my  lips  to  its  kisses. 
How  delicious !    all  night  and  ages  and  ages  long  to 

spread  myself  to  the  gliding  wind  ! 
But  now  (and  ever)  it  maddens  me  with  its  touch, 

I  arise  and  whirl  in  my  bed,  and  sweep  my  arms 

madly  along  the  shores. 

I  am  not  sure  any  more  which  my  own  particular  bit 

of  shore  is ; 
All  the  bays  and  inlets  know  me  :   I  glide  along  in  and 

out  under  the  sun  by  the  beautiful  coast-line  ; 
My  hair  floats  leagues  behind  me  ;    millions  together 

my  children  dash  against  my  face  ; 
I  hear  what  they  say  and  am  marvellously  content. 

All  night  by  the  shore  ; 
And  the  sea  is  a  sea  of  faces. 

The  long  white  lines  come  up — face  after  face  comes 

and  falls  past  me — 
Thud  after  thud.    Is  it  pain  or  joy  ? 
Face  after  face — endless ! 


EDWARD  CARPENTER  361 

I  do  not  know  ;  my  sense  numbs ;  a  trance  is  on  me — 

I  am  becoming  detached  ! 
I  am  a  bit  of  the  shore  : 
The  waves  feed  upon  me,  they  pasture  all  over  me,  my 

feeling  is  strangely  concentrated  at  every  point 

where  they  touch  me  ; 
I  am  glad  O  waves  that  you  come  pasturing  over  me. 

I  am  detached,  I  disentangle  myself  from  the  shore  ; 

I  have  become  free — I  float  out  and  mingle  with 

the  rest. 
The  pain,  the  acute  clinging  desire,  is  over — I  feel 

beings  like  myself  all  around  me,  I  spread  myself 

through  and  through  them,  I  am  merged  in  a  sea 

of  contact. 
Freedom  and  equality  are  a  fact.    Life  and  joy  seem 

to  have  begun  for  me. 

The  play  goes  on  ! 

Suddenly  I  am  the  great  living  Ocean  itself — the  awful 
Spirit  of  Immensity  creeps  over  my  face. 

I  am  in  love  with  it.  All  night  and  ages  and  ages  long 
and  for  ever  I  pour  my  soul  out  to  it  in  love. 

I  spread  myself  out  broader  and  broader  for  ever,  that 
I  may  touch  it  and  be  with  it  everywhere. 

There  i?  no  end.  But  ever  and  anon  it  maddens  me 
with  its  touch.  I  arise  and  sweep  away  my  bounds. 

I  know  but  I  do  not  care  any  longer  which  my  own 

particular   body  is — all  conditions   and  fortunes 

are  mine. 
By  the  ever-beautiful  coast-line  of  human  life,  by  all 

shores,  in  all  climates  and  countries,   by  every 

secluded  nook  and  inlet, 
N3 


362  EDWARD  CARPENTER 

Under  the  eye  of  my  beloved  Spirit  I  glide  : 

0  joy  !  for  ever,  ever,  joy  ! 

1  am  not  hurried — the  whole  of  eternity  is  mine  ; 
With  each  one  I  delay,  with  each  one  I  dwell — with  you 

I  dwell. 

The  warm  breath  of  each  life  ascends  past  me  ; 
I  take  the  thread  from  the  fingers  that  are  weary,  and 

go  on  with  the  work  ; 
The  secretest  thoughts  of  all  are  mine,  and  mine  are 

the  secretest  thoughts  of  all. 

All  night  by  the  shore ; 

And  the  fresh  air  comes  blowing  with  the  dawn. 

The  mystic  night  fades — but  my  joy  fades  not. 

I  arise  and  cast  a  stone  into  the  water  (O  sea  of  faces 

I  cast  this  poem  among  you) — and  turn  landward 

over  the  rustling  beach. 

Love's  Vision 

A!1  night  in  each  other's  arms, 
Content,  overjoyed,  resting  deep  deep  down  in 
the  darkness, 

Lo  !  the  heavens  opened  and  He  appeared — 
Whom  no  mortal  eye  may  see, 
Whom  no  eye  clouded  Xvith  Care, 
Whom  none  who  seeks  after  this  or  that,  whom  none 
who  has  not  escaped  from  self. 

There — in  the  region  of  Equality,  in  the  world  of 

Freedom  no  longer  limited, 

Standing  as  a  lofty  peak  in  heaven  above  the  clouds, 
From  below  hidden,  yet  to  all  who  pass  into  that  region 

most  clearly  visible — 
He  the  Eternal  appeared. 


EDWARD  CARPENTER  363 

Over  the  Great  City 

OVER  the  great  city, 
Where  the  wind   rustles   through    the    parks   and 

gardens, 

In  the  air,  the  high  clouds  brooding, 
In  the  lines  of  street  perspective,  the  lamps,  the  traffic, 
The  pavements  and  the  innumerable  feet  upon  them, 
I  Am  :   make  no  mistake — do  not  be  deluded. 


Think  not  because  I  do  not  appear  at  the  first  glance — 
because  the  centuries  have  gone  by  and  there  is 
no  assured  tidings  of  me — that  therefore  I  am  not 
there. 

Think  not  because  all  goes  its  own  way  that  therefore 
I  do  not  go  my  own  way  through  all. 

The  fixed  bent  of  hurrying  faces  in  the  street — each 
turned  towards  its  own  light,  seeing  no  other — 
yet  I  am  the  Light  towards  which  they  all  look. 

The  toil  of  so  many  hands  to  such  multifarious  ends, 
yet  my  hand  knows  the  touch  and  twining  of  them 
all. 

All  come  to  me  at  last. 

There  is  no  love  like  mine  ; 

For  all  other  love  takes  one  and  not  another  ; 

And  other  love  is  pain,  but  this  is  joy  eternal. 


364  EDWARD  CARPENTER 


So   Thin  a 

SO  thin  a  veil  divides 
Us  from  such  joy,  past  words, 
Walking  in  daily  life  —  the  business  of  the  hour,  each 

detail  seen  to  ; 
Yet  carried,  rapt  away,  on  what  sweet  floods  of  other 

Being  : 
Swift  streams  of  music  flowing,  light  far  back  through 

all  Creation  shining, 
Loved  faces  looking  — 
Ah  !  from  the  true,  the  mortal  self 
So  thin  a  veil  divides  ! 


The  World- Spirit 

ECE  soundless  summer  lightning  seen  afar. 
A  halo  o'er  the  grave  of  all  mankind, 
O  undefined  dream-embosomed  star, 

O  charm  of  human  love  and  sorrow  twined  : 

Far,  far  away  beyond  the  world's  bright  streams, 

Over  the  ruined  spaces  of  the  lands, 
Thy  beauty,  floating  slowly,  ever  seems 

To  shine  most  glorious  ;  then  from  out  our  hands 

To  fade  and  vanish,  evermore  to  be 

Our  sorrow,  our  sweet  longing  sadly  borne, 

Our  incommunicable  mystery 

Shrined  in  the  soul's  long  night  before  the  morn. 

Ah  !  in  the  far  fled  days,  how  fair  the  sun 
Fell  sloping  o'er  the  green  flax  by  the  Nile, 

Kissed  the  slow  water's  breast,  and  glancing  shone 
Where  laboured  men  and  maidens,  with  a  smile 


EDWARD  CARPENTER  365 

Cheating  the  laggard  hours ;   o'er  them  the  doves 
Sailed  high  in  evening  blue  ;   the  river-wheel 

Sang,  and  was  still ;  and  lamps  of  many  loves 
Were  lit  in  hearts,  long  dead  to  woe  or  weal. 

And,  where  a  shady  headland  cleaves  the  light 
That  like  a  silver  swan  floats  o'er  the  deep 

Dark  purple-stained  Aegean,  oft  the  height 
Felt  from  of  old  some  poet-soul  upleap, 

As  in  the  womb  a  child  before  its  birth, 
Foreboding  higher  life.    Of  old,  as  now, 

Smiling  the  calm  sea  slept,  and  woke  with  mirth 
To  kiss  the  strand,  and  slept  again  below. 

So,  from  of  old,  o'er  Athens'  god-crowned  steep 
Or  round  the  shattered  bases  of  great  Rome, 

Fleeting  and  passing,  as  in  dreamful  sleep, 
The  shadow-peopled  ages  go  and  come  : 

Sounds  of  a  far-awakened  multitude, 
With  cry  of  countless  voices  intertwined, 

Harsh  strife  and  stormy  roar  of  battle  rude, 
Labour  and  peaceful  arts  and  growth  of  mind. 

And  yet,  o'er  all,  the  One  through  many  seen, 
The  phantom  Presence  moving  without  fail, 

Sweet  sense  of  closelinked  life  and  passion  keen 
As  of  the  grass  waving  before  the  gale. 

What  art  Thou,  O  that  wast  and  art  to  be  ? 

Ye  forms  that  once  through  shady  forest-glade 
Or  golden  light-flood  wandered  lovingly, 

What  are  ye  ?  Nay,  though  all  the  past  do  fade 


366 


EDWARD  CARPENTER 


Ye  are  not  therefore  perished,  ye  whom  erst 
The  eternal  Spirit  struck  with  quick  desire, 

And  led  and  beckoned  onward  till  the  first 
Slow  spark  of  life  became  a  flaming  fire. 

Ye  are  not  therefore  perished  :  for  behold 
To-day  ye  move  about  us,  and  the  same 

Dark  murmur  of  the  past  is  forward  rolled 
Another  age,  and  grows  with  louder  fame 

Unto  the  morrow  :   newer  ways  are  ours, 

New  thoughts,  new  fancies,  and  we  deem  our  lives 

New-fashioned  in  a  mould  of  vaster  powers ; 
But  as  of  old  with  flesh  the  spirit  strives, 

And  we  but  head  the  strife.    Soon  shall  the  song 
That  rolls  all  down  the  ages  blend  its  voice 

With  our  weak  utterance  and  make  us  strong ; 
That  we,  borne  forward  still,  may  still  rejoice, 

Fronting  the  wave  of  change.    Thou  who  alone 
Changeless  remainest,  O  most  mighty  Soul, 

Hear  us  before  we  vanish  !  O  make  known 
Thyself  in  us,  us  in  Thy  living  whole. 


SAMUEL  WADDINGTON 

b.  1844 
A  Persian  Apologue 

EVE  came  to  crave  sweet  love,  if  love  might  be ; 
To  the  Beloved's  door  he  came,  and  knocked  : — 

*  And  who  art  thou  ?  '  she  asked, — '  we  know  not  thee  ! ' 
Then  shyly  listened,  nor  the  door  unlocked. 

Love  answered,  '  It  is  I  ! '   '  Nay,  thee  and  me 
This  house  will  never  hold.' — 'Twas  thus  she  mocked 
His  piteous  quest ;  and,  weeping,  home  went  he, 
While  thro'  the  night  the  moaning  plane-tree  rocked. 

Three  seasons  sped,  and  lo,  again  Love  came  ; 
Again  he  knocked  ;   again  in  simple  wise, 

*  Pray,  who  is  there  ?  '  she  asked, — '  What  is  thy  name?' 
But  Love  had  learnt  the  magic  of  replies, — 

'  It  is  Thyself  !  '  he  whispered,  and  behold, 
The  door  was  opened,  and  love's  mystery  told. 

JOHN  BANNISTER  TABB 

1845-1909 
The  Life-tide 

EACH  wave  that  breaks  upon  the  strand, 
How  swift  soe'er  to  spurn  the  sand 

And  seek  again  the  sea, 
Christ-like,  within  its  lifted  hand 
Must  bear  the  stigma  of  the  land 
For  all  eternity. 

Communion 

ONCE  when  my  heart  was  passion-free 
To  learn  of  things  divine, 
The  soul  of  nature  suddenly 
Outpoured  itself  in  mine. 


368  JOHN  BANNISTER  TABB 

I  held  the  secrets  of  the  deep, 
And  of  the  heavens  above  ; 

I  knew  the  harmonies  of  sleep, 
The  mysteries  of  love. 

And  for  a  moment's  interval 
The  earth,  the  sky,  the  sea— 

My  soul  encompassed,  each  and  all, 
As  now  they  compass  me. 

To  one  in  all,  to  all  in  one — 
Since  Love  the  work  began — 

Life's  ever  widening  circles  run, 
Revealing  God  and  man. 


Interpreter 

WHAT,  O  Eternity, 
Is  Time  to  thee  ?— 
What  to  the  boundless  All 
My  portion  small  ? 

Lift  up  thine  eyes,  my  soul ! 
Against  the  tidal  roll 

Stands  many  a  stone, 

Whereon  the  breakers  thrown 
Are  dashed  to  spray — 

Else  were  the  Ocean  dumb. 

So,  in  the  way 

Of  tides  eternal,  thou 

Abidest  now ; 
And  God  Himself  doth  come 

A  suppliant  to  thee, 

Love's  prisoned  thought  to  free. 


JOHN  BANNISTER  TABB  369 

Christ  and  the  Pagan 

I  HAD  no  God  but  these, 
The  sacerdotal  Trees, 
And  they  uplifted  me. 
'  /  hung  upon  a  Tree? 

The  sun  and  moon  I  saw, 
And  reverential  awe 
Subdued  me  day  and  night. 

*  /  am  the  perfect  Light* 

Within  a  lifeless  Stone — 
All  other  gods  unknown — 
I  sought  Divinity. 
(  The  Corner-Stone  am  /.' 

For  sacrificial  feast, 
I  slaughtered  man  and  beast, 
Red  recompense  to  gain. 
'  So  /,  a  Lamb,  was  slain. 

*  Tea  ;  such  My  hungering  Grace 
That  wheresoever  My  face 

Is  hidden,  none  may  grope 
Beyond  eternal  Hope.'' 


All  in  All 

WE  know  Thee,  each  in  part — 
A  portion  small ; 
But  love  Thee,  as  Thou  art — 

The  All  in  all:    ' 
For  Reason  and  the  rays  thereof 
Are  starlight  to  the  noon  of  Love. 


37<> 

EMILY  HENRIETTA  HICKEY 

b. 1845 

'  The  Greatest  of  these  is  Charity ' 

i 
'T'HERE  came  one  day  a  leper  to  my  door  : 

1  I  shrank  from, him  in  loathing  and  in  dread, 
But  yet,  remembering  how  old  legends  said 
That  Jesus  Christ  so  often  heretofore 
Came  in  such  guise  to  try  His  saints  of  yore, 
I  brought  him  in,  and  clothed,  and  warmed,  and  fed ; 
Yea,  brake  my  box  of  precious  nard,  to  pour 
Its  costly  fragrancy  upon  his  feet. 
And  when  the  house  was  filled  with  odour  sweet, 
I  looked  to  see  the  loveliest  face, — but  o'er 
The  leper  came  no  change  divine  to  greet 
My  eager  soul,  which  did  such  change  entreat. 
And  then  I  bowed  my  head,  and  wept  full  sore — 
Ah  !  the  times  change  ;  such  visions  come  no  more  ! 

ii 

With  tear-dimmed  eyes  I  went  upon  my  way, 
Passed  from  the  city  to  the  April  wood, 
Where  the  young  trees  in  trembling  gladness  stood  ; 
And  once  again  my  grieved  heart  grew  gay. 
Then  did  I  see  a  little  child  at  play  ; 
All  the  sweet  April  fountain  of  his  blood 
Tossed  out  in  joy,  that  brake  in  laughter-spray  ; 
And  all  my  heart  it  loved  him  ;  so  I  bent 
To  kiss  his  sunny  mouth.    Then  through  me  went 
That  which  I  may  not  tell,  nor  can,  to-day. 
When  was  such  healing  with  such  wounding  blent  ? 
Such  pain  supreme  with  such  supreme  content  ? 
The  fires  of  God  comfort  as  well  as  slay, 
Else  had  I  surely  died,  who  am  but  clay. 


GEORGE  BARLOW 

b. 1847 

The  Immortal  and  the  Mortal 

OH  where  the  immortal  and  the  mortal  meet 
In  union  than  of  wind  and  wave  more  sweet, 
Meet  me,  O  God — 
Where  Thou  hast  trod 
I  follow,  along  the  blood-print  of  Thy  feet. 

Oh,  though  the  austere  ensanguined  road  be  hard 
And  all  the  blue  skies  shine  through  casemates  barred, 

I  follow  Thee — 

Show  Thou  to  me 
Thy  face,  the  speechless  face  divinely  marred. 

Lo  !  who  will  love  and  follow  to  the  end, 
Shall  he  not  also  to  hell's  depths  descend  ? 

Shall  he  not  find 

The  whole  world  blind, 
Searching  among  the  lone  stars  for  a  friend  ? 

Lo  !  who  will  follow  love  throughout  the  way, 
From  crimson  morning  flush  till  twilight  grey  ? 

Who  fears  not  chains, 

Anguish  and  pains, 
If  love  wait  at  the  ending  of  the  day  ? 

If  at  the  ending  of  the  day  life's  bride 
Be  near  our  hearts  in  vision  glorified  : 

If  at  the  end 

God's  hand  extend 
That  far  triumphant  boon  for  which  we  sighed 


372  GEORGE  BARLOW 

Oh,  where  the  immortal  to  our  mortal  flows, 
Flushing  our  grey  clay  heart  to  its  own  rose, 

Spirit  supreme 

Upon  me  gleam ; 
Make  me  Thine  own  ;    I  reckon  not  the  throes. 

I  would  pour  out  my  heart  in  one  long  sigh 

Of  speechless  yearning  towards  Thine  home  on  high  : 

I  would  be  pure, 

Suffer,  endure, 
Pervade  with  ceaseless  wings  the  unfathomed  sky. 

Oh,  at  the  point  where  God  and  man  are  one, 
Meet  me,  Thou  God  ;  flame  on  me  like  the  sun  ; 

I  would  be  part 

Of  Thine  own  heart, 
That  by  my  hands  Thy  love-deeds  may  be  done  : 

That  by  my  hands  Thy  love-truths  may  be  shown 
And  far  lands  know  me  for  Thy  very  own  ; 

That  I  may  bring 

The  dead  world  spring  : — 
The  flowers  awake,  Lord,  at  Thy  word  alone. 

Oh,  to  the  point  where  man  and  God  unite, 

Raise  me,  Thou  God  ;  transfuse  me  with  Thy  light ; 

Where  I  would  go 

Thou,  God,  dost  know  ; 
For  Thy  sake  I  will  face  the  starless  night. 

The  night  is  barren,  black,  devoid  of  bloom, 
Scentless  and  waste,  a  wide  appalling  tomb  ; 

Dark  foes  surround 

The  soul  discrowned 

And   strange   shapes  lower   and  threaten  through   the 
gloom. 


GEORGE  BARLOW  373 

But  where  Thou  art  with  me  Thy  mortal,  one, 
God,  mine  immortal,  my  death-conquering  sun, 

Meet  me  and  show 

What  path  to  go 
Till  the  last  work  of  deathless  love  be  done. 


DIGBY  MACKWORTH  DOLBEN 

1848-1867 
'  Strange,  all-absorbing  Love ' 

STRANGE,  all-absorbing  Love,  who  gatherest 
Unto  Thy  glowing  all  my  pleasant  dew, 
Then  delicately  my  garden  waterest, 
Drawing  the  old,  to  pour  it  back  anew  : 

In  the  dim  glitter  of  the  dawning  hours 
'  Not  so,'  I  said,  *  but  still  those  drops  of  light, 
Heart-shrined  among  the  petals  of  my  flowers, 
Shall  hold  the  memory  of  the  starry  night 

(  So  fresh,  no  need  of  showers  shall  there  be.' — 
Ah,  senseless  gardener  !    must  it  come  to  pass 
That  'neath  the  glaring  noon  thou  shouldest  see 
Thine  earth  become  as  iron,  His  heavens  as  brass  ? 

Nay  rather,  O  my  Sun,  I  will  be  wise, 

Believe  in  Love  which  may  not  yet  be  seen, 

Yield  Thee  my  earth-drops,  call  Thee  from  the  skies, 

In  soft  return,  to  keep  my  bedding  green. 

So  when  the  bells  at  Vesper-tide  shall  sound, 
And  the  dead  ocean  o'er  my  garden  flows, 
Upon  the  Golden  Altar  may  be  found 
Some  scarlet  berries  and  a  Christmas  rose. 


374          DIGBY  MACKWORTH  DOLBEN 
Flowers  for  the  Altar 


r"T'ELL  us,  tell  us,  holy  shepherds, 
1  What  at  Bethlehem  you  saw. — 
« Very  God  of  Very  God 
Asleep  amid  the  straw.' 

Tell  us,  tell  us,  all  ye  faithful, 

What  this  morning  came  to  pass 
At  the  awful  elevation 

In  the  Canon  of  the  Mass. — 
*  Very  God  of  Very  God, 

By  whom  the  worlds  were  made, 
In  silence  and  in  helplessness 

Upon  the  altar  laid.' 

Tell  us,  tell  us,  wondrous  Jesu, 
What  has  drawn  Thee  from  above 

To  the  manger  and  the  altar. — 
All  the  silence  answers — Love. 


Through  the  roaring  streets  of  London 
Thou  art  passing,  hidden  Lord, 

Uncreated,  Consubstantial, 
In  the  seventh  heaven  adored. 

As  of  old  the  ever-Virgin 

Through  unconscious  Bethlehem 
Bore  Thee,  not  in  glad  procession, 

Jewelled  robe  and  diadem  ; 


DIGBY  MACKWORTH  DOLBEN          375 

Not  in  pomp  and  not  in  power, 

Onward  to  Nativity, 
Shrined  but  in  the  tabernacle 

Of  her  sweet  Virginity. 

Still  Thou  goest  by  in  silence, 

Still  the  world  cannot  receive, 
Still  the  poor  and  weak  and  weary 

Only,  worship  and  believe. 


CHRISTINA  CATHERINE  FRASER-TYTLER 
(MRS.  EDWARD  LIDDELL) 

b.  1848 

In  Summer  Fields 

SOMETIMES,  as  in  the  summer  fields 
I  walk  abroad,  there  comes  to  me 
So  strange  a  sense  of  mystery, 
My  heart  stands  still,  my  feet  must  stay, 
I  am  in  such  strange  company. 

I  look  on  high — the  vasty  deep 
Of  blue  outreaches  all  my  mind ; 
And  yet  I  think  beyond  to  find 
Something  more  vast — and  at  my  feet 
The  little  bryony  is  twined. 

Clouds  sailing  as  to  God  go  by, 
Earth,  sun,  and  stars  are  rushing  on  ; 
And  faster  than  swift  time,  more  strong 
Than  rushing  of  the  worlds,  I  feel 
A  something  Is,  of  name  unknown. 


376    CHRISTINA  CATHERINE  FRASER-TYTLER 

And  turning  suddenly  away, 
Grown  sick  and  dizzy  with  the  sense 
Of  power,  and  mine  own  impotence, 
I  see  the  gentle  cattle  feed 
In  dumb  unthinking  innocence. 

The  great  Unknown  above  ;   below, 
The  cawing  rooks,  the  milking-shed  ; 
God's  awful  silence  overhead  ; 
Below,  the  muddy  pool,  the  path 
The  thirsty  herds  of  cattle  tread. 

Sometimes,  as  in  the  summer  fields 
I  walk  abroad,  there  comes  to  me 
So  wild  a  sense  of  mystery, 
My  senses  reel,  my  reason  fails, 
I  am  in  such  strange  company. 

Yet  somewhere,  dimly,  I  can  feel 
The  wild  confusion  dwells  in  me, 
And  I,  in  no  strange  company, 
Am  the  lost  link  'twixt  Him  and  these, 
And  touch  Him  through  the  mystery. 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY 

1849-1903 
/  am  the  Reapet 

I  AM  the  Reaper. 
All  things  with  heedful  hook 
Silent  I  gather. 

Pale  roses  touched  with  the  spring, 
Tall  corn  in  summer, 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY  377 

Fruits  rich  with  autumn,  and  frail  winter  blossoms — 
Reaping,  still  reaping — 
All  things  with  heedful  hook 
Timely  I  gather. 

I  am  the  Sower. 

All  the  unbodied  life 

Runs  through  my  seed-sheet. 

Atom  with  atom  wed, 

Each  quickening  the  other, 

Fall  through  my  hands,  ever  changing,  still  changeless. 

Ceaselessly  sowing, 

Life,  incorruptible  life, 

Flows  from  my  seed-sheet. 

Maker  and  breaker, 

I  am  the  ebb  and  the  flood, 

Here  and  Hereafter, 

Sped  through  the  tangle  and  coil 

Of  infinite  nature, 

Viewless  and  soundless  I  fashion  all  being. 

Taker  and  giver, 

I  am  the  womb  and  the  grave, 

The  Now  and  the  Ever. 


EDMUND  GOSSE 

b.  1849 

The  Tide  of  Love 

¥  OVE,  flooding  all  the  creeks  of  my  dry  soul, 

•    *  From  which  the  warm  tide  ebbed  when  I  was  born, 

Following  the  moon  of  destiny,  doth  roll 

•  His  slow  rich  wave  along  the  shore  forlorn, 
To  make  the  ocean — God — and  me,  one  whole. 


378  EDMUND  GOSSE 

So,  shuddering  in  its  ecstasy,  it  lies, 

And,  freed  from  mire  and  tangle  of  the  ebb, 

Reflects  the  waxing  and  the  waning  skies, 
And  bears  upon  its  panting  breast  the  web 

Of  night  and  her  innumerable  eyes. 

Nor  can  conceive  at  all  that  it  was  blind, 

But  trembling  with  the  sharp  approach  of  love, 

That,  strenuous,  moves  without  one  breath  of  wind, 
Gasps,  as  the  wakening  maid,  on  whom  the  Dove 

With  folded  wings  of  deity  declined. 

She  in  the  virgin  sweetness  of  her  dream 
Thought  nothing  strange  to  find  her  vision  true  ; 

And  I  thus  bathed  in  living  rapture  deem 
No  moveless  drought  my  channel  ever  knew, 

But  rustled  always  with  the  murmuring  stream. 


Old  and  New 

I.    B.C. 

COME,  Hesper,  and  ye  Gods  of  mountain  waters, 
Come,  nymphs  and  Dryades, 
Come,  silken  choir  of  soft  Pierian  daughters, 

And  girls  of  lakes  and  seas, 
Evoe  !   and  evoe  lo  !   crying, 
Fill  all  the  earth  and  air  ; 
Evoe  !   till  the  quivering  words,  replying, 
Shout  back  the  echo  there  ! 

All  day  in  soundless  swoon  or  heavy  slumber, 

We  lay  among  the  flowers, 
But  now  the  stars  break  forth  in  countless  number 

To  watch  the  dewy  hours  ; 


EDMUND  GOSSE  379 

And  now  lacchus,  beautiful  and  glowing, 

Adown  the  hill-side  comes, 
Mid  tabrets  shaken  high,  and  trumpets  blowing, 

And  resonance  of  drums. 

The  leopard-skin  is  round  his  smooth  white  shoulders, 

The  vine-branch  round  his  hair, 
Those  eyes  that  rouse  desire  in  maid-beholders 

Are  glittering,  glowworm-fair  ; 
Crowned  king  of  all  the  provinces  of  pleasure, 

Lord"  of  a  wide  domain, 
He  comes,  and  brings  delight  that  knows  no  measure, 

A  full  Saturnian  reign. 

Take  me,  too,  Maenads,  to  your  fox-skin  chorus, 

Rose-lipped  like  volute-shells, 
For  I  would  follow  where  your  host  canorous 

Roars  down  the  forest-dells ; 
The  sacred  frenzy  rends  my  throat  and  bosom  ! 

I  shout,  and  whirl  where  He, 
Our  Vine-God,  tosses  like  some  pale  blood-blossom 

Swept  on  a  stormy  sea. 

Around  his  car,  with  streaming  hair,  and  frantic, 

The  Maenads  and  wild  gods 
And  shaggy  fauns  and  wood-girls  corybantic 

Toss  high  the  ivy-rods  ; 
Brown  limbs  with  white  limbs  madly  intertwining 

Whirl  in  a  fiery  dance, 
Till,  when  at  length  Orion  is  declining, 

We  glide  into  a  trance. 

The  satyr's  heart  is  faintly,  faintly  beating, 

The  choir  of  nymphs  is  mute  ; 
lacchus  up  the  western  slope  is  fleeting, 

Uncheered  by  horn  or  flute  ; 


380  EDMUND  GOSSE 

Hushed,  hushed  are  all  the  shouting  and  the  singing, 

The  frenzy,  the  delight, 
Since  out  into  the  cold  grey  air  upspringing, 

The  morning-star  shines  bright. 


II.    A.D. 

Not  with  a  choir  of  angels  without  number, 

And  noise  of  lutes  and  lyres, 
But  gently,  with  the  woven  veil  of  slumber 

Across  Thine  awful  fires, 
We  yearn  to  watch  Thy  face,  serene  and  tender, 

Melt,  smiling,  calm  and  sweet, 
Where  round  the  print  of  thorns,  in  thornlike  splendour, 

Transcendent  glories  meet. 

We  have  no  hopes  if  Thou  art  close  beside  us, 

And  no  profane  despairs, 
Since  all  we  need  is  Thy  great  hand  to  guide  us, 

Thy  heart  to  take  our  cares  ; 
For  us  is  no  to-day,  to-night,  to-morrow, 

No  past  time  nor  to  be, 
We  have  no  joy  but  Thee,  there  is  no  sorrow, 

No  life  to  live  but  Thee. 

The  cross,  like  pilgrim-warriors,  we  follow, 

Led  by  our  eastern  star  ; 
The  wild  crane  greets  us,  and  the  wandering  swallow 

Bound  southward  for  Shinar  ; 
All  night  that  single  star  shines  bright  above  us ; 

We  go  with  weary  feet, 
But  in  the  end  we  know  are  they  who  love  us, 

Whose  pure  embrace  is  sweet. 


EDMUND  GOSSE  381 

Most  sweet  of  all,  when  dark  the  way  and  moonless, 

To  feel  a  touch,  a  breath, 
And  know  our  weary  spirits  are  not  tuneless, 

Our  unseen  goal  not  Death  ; 
To  know  that  Thou,  in  all  Thy  old  sweet  fashion, 

Art  near  us  to  sustain  ! 
We  praise  Thee,  Lord,  by  all  Thy  tears  and  passion, 

By  all  Thy  cross  and  pain  ! 

For  when  this  night  of  toil  and  tears  is  over, 

Across  the  hills  of  spice, 
Thyself  wilt  meet  us,  glowing  like  a  lover 

Before  Love's  Paradise ; 
There  are  the  saints,  with  palms  and  hymns  and  roses, 

And  better  still  than  all, 
The  long,  long  day  of  bliss  that  never  closes, 

Thy  marriage  festival ! 

EDMOND  GORE  ALEXANDER  HOLMES 

b. 1850 

The  Creed  of  My  Heart 

AFLAME  in  my  heart  is  kindled  by  the  might  of  the 
morn's  pure  breath ; 

A  passion  beyond  all  passion  ;   a  faith  that  eclipses  faith  ; 

A  joy  that  is  more  than  gladness ;  a  hope  that  outsoars 
desire ; 

A  love  that  consumes  and  quickens ;  a  soul-transfiguring  fire. 

My  life  is  possessed  and  mastered  :  my  heart  is  inspired 
and  filled. 

All  other  visions  have  faded  :   all  other  voices  are  stilled. 

My  doubts  are  vainer  than  shadows  :  my  fears  are  idler 
than  dreams  : 

They  vanish  like  breaking  bubbles,  those  old  soul- 
torturing  themes. 


382     EDMOND  GORE  ALEXANDER  HOLMES 

The  riddles  of  life  are  cancelled,  the  problems  that  bred 

despair  : 
I  cannot  guess  them  or  solve  them,  but  I  know  that  they 

are  not  there. 
They  are  past,  they  are  all  forgotten,  the  breeze  has  blown 

them  away ; 

For  life's  inscrutable  meaning  is  clear  as  the  dawn  of  day. 
It  is  there — the  secret  of  Nature — there  in  the  morning's 

glow; 
There  in  the  speaking  stillness ;  there  in  the  rose-flushed 

snow. 

It  is  here  in  the  joy  and  rapture ;  here  in  my  pulsing  breast : 
I  feel  what  has  ne'er  been  spoken  :  I  know  what  has  ne'er 

been  guessed. 

The  rose-lit  clouds  of  morning  ;  the  sun-kissed  mountain 

heights ; 
The  orient  streaks  and  flushes ;  the  mingling  shadows  and 

lights  ; 
The  flow  of  the  lonely  river ;    the  voice  of  its  distant 

stream ; 
The  mists  that  rise  from  the  meadows,  lit  up  by  the  sun's 

first  beam ; — 
They  mingle  and  melt  as  I  watch  them  ;  melt  and  mingle 

and  die. 

The  land  is  one  with  the  water:  the  earth  is  one  with  the  sky. 
The  parts  are  as  parts  no  longer  :  Nature  is  All  and  One  : 
Her  life  is  achieved,  completed  :  her  days  of  waiting  are 

done. 

I  breathe  the  breath  of  the  morning.    I  am  one  with  the 

one  World-Soul. 
I  live  my  own  life  no  longer,  but  the  life  of  the  living 

Whole. 


EDMOND  GORE  ALEXANDER  HOLMES      383 

I  am  more  than  self  :  I  am  selfless :  I  am  more  than  self  : 

I  am  I. 
I  have  found  the  springs  of  my  being  in  the  flush  of  the 

eastern  sky. 
I — the  true  self,   the  spirit,  the  self  that  is   born   of 

death — 
I  have  found  the  flame  of  my  being  in  the  morn's  ambrosial 

breath. 

I  lose  my  life  for  a  season  :   I  lose  it  beyond  recall  : 
But  I  find  it  renewed,  rekindled,  in  the  life  of  the  One,  the 

All. 
I  look  not  forward  or  backward  :  the  abysses  of  time  are 

nought. 
From  pole  to  pole  of  the  heavens  I  pass  in  a  flash  of 

thought. 
I  clasp  the  world  to  my  bosom  :    I  feel  its  pulse  in  my 

breast, — 
The  pulse  of  measureless  motion,  the  pulse  of  fathomless 

rest. 
Is  it  motion  or  rest  that  thrills  me  ?     Is  it  lightning  or 

moonlit  peace  ? 
Am  I  freer  than  waves  of  ether,  or  prisoned  beyond 

release  ? 
I  know  not ;   but  through  my  spirit,  within  me,  around, 

above, 
The  world-wide  river  is  streaming,  the  river  of  life  and 

love. 

Silent,  serene,  eternal,  passionless,  perfect,  pure ; — 
I  may  not  measure  its  windings,  but  I  know  that  its  aim 

is  sure. 
In  its  purity  seethes  all  passion  :   in  its  silence  resounds 

all  song  : 
Its  strength  is  builded  of  weakness  :    its  right  is  woven 

of  wrong. 


384     EDMOND  GORE  ALEXANDER  HOLMES 

I  am  borne  afar  on  its  bosom  ;  yet  its  source  and  its  goal 

are  mine, 
From  the  sacred  springs  of  Creation  to  the  ocean  of  love 

Divine. 
I  have  ceased  to  think  or  to  reason  :   there  is  nothing  to 

ponder  or  prove  : 
I  hope,  I  believe  no  longer  ;  I  am  lost  in  a  dream  of  love. 


Nirvana 

COULD  my  heart  but  see  Creation  as  God  sees  it, — 
from  within  ; 
See  His  grace  behind  its  beauty,  see  His  will  behind  its 

force  ; 
See  the  flame  of  life  shoot  upward  when  the  April  days 

begin  ; 

See  the  wave  of  life  rush  outward  from  its  pure  eternal 
source ; 

Could  I  see  the  summer  sunrise  glow  with  God's  tran 
scendent  hope ; 
See  His  peace  upon  the  waters  in  the  moonlit  summer 

night ; 
See  Him  nearer  still  when,  blinded,  in  the  depths  of  gloom 

I  grope,— 

See  the  darkness  flash  and  quiver  with  the  gladness  of 
His  light ;  . 

Could  I  see  the  red-hot  passion  of  His  love  resistless  burn 
Through  the  dumb  despair  of  winter,  through  the 

frozen  lifeless  clod  ; — 

Could  I  see  what  lies  around  me  as  God  sees  it,  I  should  learn 
That  its  outward  life  is  nothing,  that  its  inward  life 
is  God. 


EDMOND  GORE  ALEXANDER  HOLMES     385 

Vain  the  dream  !    To  spirit  only  is  the  spirit-life  revealed  : 
God  alone  can  see  God's  glory :    God  alone  can  feel 

God's  love. 

By  myself  the  soul  of  Nature  from  myself  is  still  concealed  ; 
And  the  earth  is  still  around  me,  and  the  skies  are  still 
above. 

Vain  the  dream  !   I  cannot  mingle  with  the  all-sustaining 

soul : 
I  am  prisoned  in  my  senses ;    I  am  pinioned  by  my 

pride  ; 
I  am  severed  by  my  selfhood  from  the  world-life  of  the 

Whole  ; 

And  my  world  is  near  and  narrow,  and  God's  world  is 
waste  and  wide. 

Vain  the  dream  !   Yet  in  the  morning,  when  the  eastern 

skies  are  red, 
When  the  dew  is  on  the  meadows,  when  the  lark  soars 

up  and  sings, — 
Leaps  a  sudden  flame  within  me  from  its  ashes  pale  and 

dead, 

And  I  see  God's  beauty  burning  through  the  veil  of 
outward  things. 

Brighter  grows  the  veil  and  clearer,  till,  beyond  all  fear 

and  doubt, 
I  am  ravished  by  God's  splendour  into  oneness  with 

His  rest ; 
And  I  draw  the  world  within  me,  and  I  send  my  soul 

without ; 
And  God's  pulse  is  in  my  bosom,  and  I  lie  upon  God's 

breast. 
MYST.  o 


386     EDMOND  GORE  ALEXANDER  HOLMES 

Dies  the  beatific  vision  in  the  moment  of  its  birth  ; 

Dies,  but  in  its  death  transfigures  all  the  sequence  of 

my  days  ; 
Dies,  but  dying  crowns  with  triumph  all  the  travail  of 

the  earth, 

Till  its  harsh  discordant  murmurs  swell  into  a  psalm 
of  praise. 

Then  a  yearning  comes  upon  me  to  be  drawn  at  last  by 

death, 
Drawn  into  the  mystic  circle  in  which  all  things  live 

and  move, 
Drawn  into  the  mystic  circle  of  the  love  which  is  God's 

breath, — 

Love  creative,  love  receptive,  love  of  loving,  love  of 
love. 

God  !   the  One,  the  All  of  Being  !   let  me  lose  my  life  in 

Thine  ; 
Let  me  be  what  Thou  hast  made  me,  be  a  quiver  of 

Thy  flame. 
Purge  my  self  from  self's  pollution ;    burn  it  into  life 

divine  ; 

Burn  it  till  it  dies  triumphant  in  the  firespring  whence  it 
came. 


EDMOND  GORE  ALEXANDER  HOLMES     387 

L,a  fie  Profonde 

HEMMED  in  by  petty  thoughts  and  petty  things, 
Intent  on  toys  and  trifles  all  my  years, 
Pleased  by  life's  gauds,  pained  by  its  pricks  and  stings, 

Swayed  by  ignoble  hopes,  ignoble  fears  ; 
Threading  life's  tangled  maze  without  life's  clue, 

Busy  with  means,  yet  heedless  of  their  ends, 
Lost  to  all  sense  of  what  is  real  and  true, 

Blind  to  the  goal  to  which  all  Nature  tends  : — 
Such  is  my  surface  self  :   but  deep  beneath, 

A  mighty  actor  on  a  world-wide  stage, 
Crowned  with  all  knowledge,  lord  of  life  and  death, 

Sure  of  my  aim,  sure  of  my  heritage, — 
I — the  true  self — live  on,  in  self's  despite, 
That  *  life  profound '  whose  darkness  is  God's  light. 


The  God  Within 

I IFE  of  my  life  !  soul  of  my  inmost  soul ! 
LjPure  central  point  of  everlasting  light ! 
Creative  splendour  !     Fountain-head  and  goal 
Of  all  the  rays  that  make  the  darkness  bright — 

And  pierce  the  gloom  of  nothing  more  and  more 
And  win  new  realms  from  the  abyss  of  night ! 
O  God,  I  veil  my  eyes  and  kneel  before 
Thy  shrine  of  love  and  tremble  and  adore. 

The  unfathomable  past  is  but  the  dawn 
Of  thee  triumphant  rising  from  the  tomb  ; 

And  could  we  deem  thy  lamp  of  light  withdrawn, 
Back  in  an  instant  into  primal  gloom 


388    EDMOND  GORE  ALEXANDER  HOLMES 

All  things  that  are,  all  things  that  time  has  wrought, 
All  that  shall  ever  yet  unseal  the  womb 
Of  elemental  Chaos,  swift  as  thought 
Would  melt  away  and  leave  a  world  of  nought. 

We  gaze  in  wonder  on  the  starry  face 

Of  midnight  skies,  and  worship  and  aspire, 
Yet  all  the  kingdoms  of  abysmal  space 

Are  less  than  thy  one  point  of  inmost  fire  : 

We  dare  not  think  of  time's  unending  way, 
Yet  present,  past,  and  future  would  expire, 
And  all  eternity  would  pass  away 
In  thy  one  moment  of  intensest  day. 

Of  old  our  fathers  heard  thee  when  the  roll 

Of  midnight  thunder  crashed  across  the  sky  : 
I  hear  thee  in  the  silence  of  the  soul — 
Its  very  stillness  is  the  majesty 

Of  thy  mysterious  voice,  that  moves  me  more 
Than  wrath  of  tempest  as  it  rushes  by, 
Or  booming  thunder,  or  the  surging  roar 
Of  seas  that  storm  a  never-trodden  shore. 

And  they  beheld  thee  when  the  lightning  shone, 

And  tore  the  leaden  slumber  of  the  storm 
With  vivid  flame  that  was  and  then  was  gone, 

Whose  blaze  made  blind,  whose  very  breath  was  warm : — 

But  I,  if  I  would  see  thee,  pray  for  grace 
To  veil  my  eyes  to  every  outward  form, 
And  in  the  darkness  for  a  moment's  space 
I  see  the  splendour  of  thy  cloudless  face. 

In  thought  I  climb  to  Being's  utmost  brink 

And  pass  beyond  the  last  imagined  star, 
And  tremble  and  grow  dizzy  while  I  think — 

But  thou  art  yet  more  infinitely  far, 


EDMOND  GORE  ALEXANDER  HOLMES      389 

O  God,  from  me  who  breathe  the  air  of  sin, 
And  I  am  doomed  to  traverse  worlds  that  are 
More  fathomless  to  fancy  ere  I  win 
The  central  altar  of  the  soul  within. 

How  shall  I  worship  thee  ?    With  speechless  awe 

Of  guilt  that  shrinks  when  innocence  is  near 
And  veils  its  face  :  with  faith,  that  ever  saw 
Most  when  its  eyes  were  clouded  with  a  tear  : 
With  hope,  the  breath  of  spirits  that  aspire  : 
Lastly,  with  love — the  grave  of  every  fear, 
The  fount  of  faith,  the  triumph  of  desire, 
The  burning  brightness  of  thine  own  white  fire.  .  .  . 

O  God  that  dwellest  in  transcendent  light 

Beyond  our  dreams,  who  grope  in  darkness  here, 
Beyond  imagination's  utmost  flight, — 

I  bless  thee  most  that  sometimes  when  a  tear 

Of  tender  yearning  rises  unrepressed, 
Lo  !  for  an  instant  thou  art  strangely  near — 
Nearer  to  my  own  heart  than  I  who  rest 
In  speechless  adoration  on  thy  breast. 


FRANCIS  WILLIAM  BOURDILLON 

b.  1852 

The  Chantry  of  the  Cherubim 

O  CHANTRY  of  the  Cherubim, 
Down-looking  on  the  stream  ! 
Beneath  thy  boughs  the  day  grows  dim ; 

Through  windows  comes  the  gleam ; 
A  thousand  raptures  fill  the  air, 
Beyond  delight,  beyond  despair. 


390       FRANCIS  WILLIAM  BOURDILLON 

I  will  not  name  one  flower  that  clings 

In  cluster  at  my  feet ! 
I  will  not  hail  one  bird  that  sings 

Its  anthem  loud  or  sweet ! 
This  is  the  floor  of  Heaven,  and  these 
The  angels  that  God's  ear  do  please. 

I  walk  as  one  unclothed  of  flesh, 

I  wash  my  spirit  clean  ; 
I  see  old  miracles  afresh, 

And  wonders  yet  unseen. 
I  will  not  leave  Thee  till  Thou  give 
Some  word  whereby  my  soul  may  live  ! 

I  listened — but  no  voice  I  heard  ; 

I  looked — no  likeness  saw  ; 
Slowly  the  joy  of  flower  and  bird 

Did  like  a  tide  withdraw ; 
And  in  the  heaven  a  silent  star 
Smiled  on  me,  infinitely  far. 

I  buoyed  me  on  the  wings  of  dream, 

Above  the  world  of  sense  ; 
I  set  my  thought  to  sound  the  scheme, 

And  fathom  the  Immense  ; 
I  tuned  my  spirit  as  a  lute 
To  catch  wind-music  wandering  mute. 

Yet  came  there  never  voice  nor  sign ; 

But  through  my  being  stole 
Sense  of  a  Universe  divine, 

And  knowledge  of  a  soul 
Perfected  in  the  joy  of  things, 
The  star,  the  flower,  the  bird  that  sings. 


FRANCIS  WILLIAM  BOURDILLON       391 

Nor  I  am  more,  nor  less,  than  these  ; 

All  are  one  brotherhood  ; 
I  and  all  creatures,  plants,  and  trees, 

The  living  limbs  of  God  ; 
And  in  an  hour,  as  this,  divine, 
I  feel  the  vast  pulse  throb  in  mine. 


WILLIAM  JAMES  DAWSON 

b.  1854 
Inspirations 

O  OMETIMES,  I  know  not  why,  nor  how,  nor  whence, 
k3  A  change  comes  over  me,  and  then  the  task 

Of  common  life  slips  from  me.    Would  you  ask 
What  power  is  this  which  bids  the  world  go  hence  ? 

Who  knows  ?    I  only  feel  a  faint  perfume 
Steal  through  the  rooms  of  life  ;   a  saddened  sense 
Of  something  lost ;  a  music  as  of  brooks 
That  babble  to  the  sea  ;  pathetic  looks 

Of  closing  eyes  that  in  a  darkened  room 

Once  dwelt  on  mine  :   I  feel  the  general  doom 
Creep  nearer,  and" with  God  I  stand  alone. 

O  mystic  sense  of  sudden  quickening  ! 
Hope's  lark-song  rings,  or  life's  deep  undertone 

Wails  through  my  heart — and  then  I  needs  must  sing. 


392 
EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS 

b.  1854 

Patmos 

AjL  around  him  Patmos  lies, 
Who  hath  spirit-gifted  eyes, 
Who  his  happy  sight  can  suit 
To  the  great  and  the  minute. 
Doubt  not  but  he  holds  in  view 
A  new  earth  and  heaven  new  ; 
Doubt  not  but  his  ear  doth  catch 
Strain  nor  voice  nor  reed  can  match  : 
Many  a  silver,  sphery  note 
Shall  within  his  hearing  float. 

All  around  him  Patmos  lies, 
Who  unto  God's  priestess  flies : 
Thou,  O  Nature,  bid  him  see, 
Through  all  guises  worn  by  thee, 
A  divine  apocalypse. 
Manifold  his  fellowships  : 
Now  the  rocks  their  archives  ope  ; 
Voiceless  creatures  tell  their  hope 
In  a  language  symbol-wrought ; 
Groves  to  him  sigh  out  their  thought ; 
Musings  of  the  flower  and  grass 
Through  his  quiet  spirit  pass. 
'Twixt  new  earth  and  heaven  new 
He  hath  traced  and  holds  the  clue, 
Number  his  delights  ye  may  not ; 
Fleets  the  year  but  these  decay  not. 
Now  the  freshets  of  the  rain, 
Bounding  on  from  hjll  to  plain, 
Show  him  earthly  streams  have  rise 
In  the  bosom  of  the  skies. 


EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS  393 

Now  he  feels  the  morning  thrill, 
As  upmounts,  unseen  and  still, 
Dew  the  wing  of  evening  drops. 
Now  the  frost,  that  meets  and  stops 
Summer's  feet  in  tender  sward, 
Greets  him,  breathing  heavenward. 
Hieroglyphics  writes  the  snow, 
Through  the  silence  falling  slow ; 
Types  of  star  and  petaled  bloom 
A  white  missal-page  illume. 
By  these  floating  symbols  fine, 
Heaven-truth  shall  be  divine. 

All  around  him  Patmos  lies, 
Who  hath  spirit-gifted  eyes ; 
He  need  not  afar  remove, 
He  need  not  the  times  reprove, 
Who  would  hold  perpetual  lease 
Of  an  isle  in  seas  of  peace. 

Spirit  to  Spirit 

DEAD  ?  Not  to  thee,  thou  keen  watcher, — not  silent, 
not  viewless,  to  thee, 
Immortal  still  wrapped  in  the  mortal !  I,  from  the  mortal 

set  free, 

Greet  thee  by  many  clear  tokens  thou  smilest  to  hear  and 
to  see. 

For    I,   when   thou   wakest  at  dawn,  to  thee  am  the 

entering  morn ; 
And  I,  when  thou  walkest  abroad,  am  the  dew  on  the 

leaf  and  the  thorn, 
The  tremulous  glow  of  the  noon,  the  twilight  on  harvests 

of  corn. 

°3 


394  EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS 

I  am  the  flower  by  the  wood-path, — thou  bendest  to  look 

in  my  eyes ; 
The  bird  in  its  nest  in  the  thicket, — thou  heedest  my 

love-laden  cries ; 
The  planet  that  leads  the  night  legions, — thou  liftest  thy 

gaze  to  the  skies. 

And  I  am  the  soft-dropping  rain,  the  snow  with  its  flutter 
ing  swarms ; 

The  summer-day  cloud  on  the  hilltops,  that  showeth  thee 
manifold  forms ; 

The  wind  from  the  south  and  the  west,  the  voice  that 
sings  courage  in  storms ! 

Sweet  was  the  earth  to  thee  ever,  but  sweeter  by  far  to 

thee  now : 
How  hast  thou  room  for  tears,  when  all  times  marvelest 

thou, 
Beholding  who  dwells  with  God  in  the  blossoming  sward 

and  the  bough  ! 

Once  as  a  wall  were  the  mountains,  once  darkened  between 

us  the  sea  ; 
No  longer  these  thwart  and  baffle,  forbidding  my  passage 

to  thee  : 
Immortal  still  wrapped  in  the  mortal,  I  linger  till  thou 

art  set  free  ! 


395 

OSCAR  WILDE 

1856-1900 
E  Tenebris 

COME  down,  O  Christ,  and  help  me  !  reach  thy  hand. 
For  I  am  drowning  in  a  stormier  sea 
Than  Simon  on  thy  lake  of  Galilee  : 

The  wine  of  life  is  spilt  upon  the  sand, 

My  heart  is  as  some  famine-murdered  land 
Whence  all  good  things  have  perished  utterly, 
And  well  I  know  my  soul  in  Hell  must  lie 

If  I  this  night  before  God's  throne  should  stand. 

'  He  sleeps  perchance,  or  rideth  to  the  chase, 
Like  Baal,  when  his  prophets  howled  that  name 
From  morn  to  noon  on  Carmel's  smitten  height.' 

Nay,  peace,  I  shall  behold,  before  the  night, 

The  feet  of  brass,  the  robe  more  white  than  flame, 
The  wounded  hands,  the  weary  human  face. 

From  '  Panthea ' 

WE  are  resolved  into  the  supreme  air, 
We  are  made  one  with  what  we  touch  and  see, 
With  our  heart's  blood  each  crimson  sun  is  fair, 

With  our  young  lives  each  spring-impassioned  tree 
Flames  into  green,  the  wildest  beasts  that  range 
The  moor  our  kinsmen  are,  all  life  is  one,  and  all  is  change. 

With  beat  of  systole  and  of  diastole 

One  grand  great  life  throbs  through  earth's  giant  heart, 
And  mighty  waves  of  single  Being  roll 

From  nerveless  germ  to  man,  for  we  are  part 
Of  every  rock  and  bird  and  beast  and  hill, 
One  with  the  things  that  prey  on  us,  and  one  with  what 
we  kill.  . 


396  OSCAR  WILDE 

And  we  two  lovers  shall  not  sit  afar, 

Critics  of  nature,  but  the  joyous  sea 
Shall  be  our  raiment,  and  the  bearded  star 

Shoot  arrows  at  our  pleasure  !    We  shall  be 
Parts  of  the  mighty  universal  whole, 
And  through  all  aeons  mix  and  mingle  with  the  Kosmic  Soul ! 

We  shall  be  notes  in  that  great  Symphony 
Whose  cadence  circles  through  the  rhythmic  spheres, 

And  all  the  live  World's  throbbing  heart  shall  be 
One  with  our  heart ;   the  stealthy  creeping  years 

Have  lost  their  terrors  now,  we  shall  not  die, 

The  Universe  itself  shall  be  our  Immortality  ! 

From  '  Humamtad'* 

T^O  make  the  Body  and  the  Spirit  one 

1     With  all  right  things,  till  no  thing  live  in  vain 
From  morn  to  noon,  but  in  sweet  unison 

With  every  pulse  of  flesh  and  throb  of  brain 
The  Soul  in  flawless  essence  high  enthroned, 
Against  all  outer  vain  attack  invincibly  bastioned, 

Mark  with  serene  impartiality 

The  strife  of  things,  and  yet  be  comforted, 
Knowing  that  by  the  chain  causality 

All  separate  existences  are  wed 
Into  one  supreme  whole,  whose  utterance 
Is  joy,  or  holier  praise  !  ah  !  surely  this  were  governance 
Of  Life  in  most  august  omnipresence, 

Through  which  the  rational  intellect  would  find 
In  passion  its  expression,  and  mere  sense, 

Ignoble  else,  lend  fire  to  the  mind, 
And  being  joined  with  it  in  harmony 
More  mystical  than  that  which  binds  the  stars  planetary, 


OSCAR  WILDE  397 

Strike  from  their  several  tones  one  octave  chord 
Whose  cadence  being  measureless  would  fly 

Through  all  the  circling  spheres,  then  to  its  Lord 
Return  refreshed  with  its  new  empery 

And  more  exultant  power, — this  indeed 

Could  we  but  reach  it  were  to  find  the  last,  the  perfect  creed. 

O  smitten  mouth  !   O  forehead  crowned  with  thorn  ! 

O  chalice  of  all  common  miseries  1 
Thou  for  our  sakes  that  loved  thee  not  hast  borne 

An  agony  of  endless  centuries, 
And  we  were  vain  and  ignorant  nor  knew 
That  when  we  stabbed  thy  heart  it  was  our  own  real 
hearts  we  slew. 

Being  ourselves  the  sowers  and  the  seeds, 

The  night  that  covers  and  the  lights  that  fade, 

The  spear  that  pierces  and  the  side  that  bleeds, 
The  lips  betraying  and  the  life  betrayed  ; 

The  deep  hath  calm  :  the  moon  hath  rest :  but  we 

Lords  of  the  natural  world  are  yet  our  own  dread  enemy. 

Is  this  the  end  of  all  that  primal  force 

Which,  in  its  changes  being  still  the  same, 

From  eyeless  Chaos  cleft  its  upward  course, 

Through  ravenous  seas  and  whirling  rocks  and  flame, 

Till  the  suns  met  in  heaven  and  began 

Their  cycles,  and  the  morning  stars  sang,  and  the  Word 
was  Man  ! 

Nay,  nay,  we  are  but  crucified,  and  though 

The  bloody  sweat  falls  from  our  brows  like  rain, 

Loosen  the  nails — we  shall  come  down  I  know, 
Stanch  the  red  wounds — we  shall  be  whole  again, 

No  need  have  we  of  hyssop-laden  rod, 

That  which  is  purely  human,  that  is  Godlike,  that  is  God. 


398 

WILLIAM  SHARP 

1856-1902 
The  J^alley  of  Silence 

IN  the  secret  Valley  of  Silence 
No  breath  doth  fall ; 
No  wind  stirs  in  the  branches ; 
No  bird  doth  call : 
As  on  a  white  wall 

A  breathless  lizard  is  still, 
So  silence  lies  on  the  valley 
Breathlessly  still. 

In  the  dusk-grown  heart  of  the  valley 

An  altar  rises  white  : 
No  rapt  priest  bends  in  awe 
Before  its  silent  light : 
But  sometimes  a  flight 

Of  breathless  words  of  prayer 
White-wing'd  enclose  the  altar, 
Eddies  of  prayer. 

Desire 

THE  desire  of  love,  Joy  : 
The  desire  of  life,  Peace  : 
The  desire  of  the  soul,  Heaven  : 
The  desire  of  God  ...  a  flame-white  secret  for  ever. 

The  White  Peace 

IT  lies  not  on  the  sunlit  hill 
Nor  on  the  sunlit  plain  : 
Nor  ever  on  any  running  stream 
Nor  on  the  unclouded  main — 


WILLIAM  SHARP  399 

But  sometimes,  through  the  Soul  of  Man, 

Slow  moving  o'er  his  pain, 
The  moonlight  of  a  perfect  peace 

Floods  heart  and  brain. 


The  Rose  of  Flame 

OH,  fair  immaculate  rose  of  the  world,  rose  of  my 
dream,  my  Rose  ! 
Beyond  the  ultimate  gates  of  dream  I  have  heard  thy 

mystical  call : 
It  is  where  the  rainbow  of  hope  suspends  and  the  river 

of  rapture  flows — 

And  the  cool  sweet  dews  from  the  wells  of  peace  for 
ever  fall. 

And  all  my  heart  is  aflame  because  of  the  rapture  and 

peace, 
And  I  dream,  in  my  waking  dreams  and  deep  in  the  dreams 

of  sleep, 
Till  the  high  sweet  wonderful  call  that  shall  be  the  call 

of  release 
Shall  ring  in  my  ears  as  I  sink  from  gulf  to  gulf  and  from 

deep  to  deep — 

Sink  deep,  sink  deep  beyond  the  ultimate  dreams  of  all 

desire — 
Beyond  the  uttermost  limit  of  all  that  the  craving  spirit 

knows : 
Then,  then,  oh  then  I  shall  be  as  the  inner  flame  of  thy 

fire, 
O  fair  immaculate  rose  of  the  world,  Rose  of  my  dream, 

my  Rose  ! 


4oo  WILLIAM  SHARP 

The  Mystic's  Prayer 

¥  AY  me  to  sleep  in  sheltering  flame, 
I    A  O  Master  of  the  Hidden  Fire  ! 
Wash  pure  my  heart,  and  cleanse  for  me 
My  soul's  desire. 

In  flame  of  sunrise  bathe  my  mind, 
O  Master  of  the  Hidden  Fire, 

That,  when  I  wake,  clear-eyed  may  be 
My  soul's  desire. 


Triad 

FROM  the  Silence  of  Time,  Time's  Silence  borrow. 
In  the  heart  of  To-day  is  the  word  of  To-morrow. 
The  Builders  of  Joy  are  the  Children  of  Sorrow. 


MARGARET  DELAND 

b.  1857 

Life 

BY  one  great  Heart  the  Universe  is  stirred  : 
By  Its  strong  pulse,  stars  climb  the  darkening  blue; 
It  throbs  in  each  fresh  sunset's  changing  hue, 
And  thrills  through  low  sweet  song  of  every  bird  : 

By  It,  the  plunging  blood  reds  all  men's  veins ; 
Joy  feels  that  heart  against  his  rapturous  own, 
And  on  It,  Sorrow  breathes  her  sharpest  groan  ; 

It  bounds  through  gladnesses  and  deepest  pains. 


.     MARGARET  DELAND  401 

Passionless  beating  through  all  Time  and  Space, 
Relentless,  calm,  majestic  in  Its  march, 
Alike,  though  Nature  shake  heaven's  endless  arch, 

Or  man's  heart  break,  because  of  some  dead  face  ! 

'Tis  felt  in  sunshine  greening  the  soft  sod, 
In  children's  smiling,  as  in  mother's  tears  ; 
And,  for  strange  comfort,  through  the  aching  years, 

Men's  hungry  souls  have  named  that  great  Heart,  God  ! 

AGNES  MARY  FRANCES  DUCLAUX 
(ROBINSON-DARMESTETER) 

1857- 
Rhythm 

OBEAT  and  pause  that  count  the  life  of  man, 
Throb  of  the  pulsing  heart ! 
Ripple  of  tides  and  stars  beyond  our  scan  ! 
Rhythm  o'  the  ray  o'  the  sun  and  the  red  o'  the  rose  ! 

Thrill  of  the  lightning's  dart ! 
All,  all  are  one  beyond  this  world  of  shows. 

Neither  with  eyes  that  see  nor  ears  that  hear 

May  we  discern  thee  here, 
Nor  comprehend,  O  Life  of  life,  thy  laws, 
But  all  our  idols  praise  the  perfect  whole  ; 
And  I  have  worshipped  thee,  O  rhythmic  soul, 

Chiefly  in  beat  and  pause. 

O  beat  and  pause  that  count  the  life  of  man, 

Throb  of  the  pulsing  heart ! 
Ripple  of  tides  and  stars  beyond  our  scan  ! 
Rhythm  o'  the  ray  o'  the  sun  and  the  red  o'  the  rose  ! 

Thrill  of  the  lightning's  dart  ! 
Yea,  all  are  one  behind  our  world  of  shows. 


402      AGNES  MARY  FRANCES  DUCLAUX 

The  Idea 

BENEATH  this  world  of  stars  and  flowers 
That  rolls  in  visible  deity, 
I  dream  another  world  is  ours 
And  is  the  soul  of  all  we  see. 

It  hath  no  form,  it  hath  no  spirit ; 

It  is  perchance  the  Eternal  Mind  ; 
Beyond  the  sense  that  we  inherit 

I  feel  it  dim  and  undefined. 

How  far  below  the  depth  of  being, 
How  wide  beyond  the  starry  bound 

It  rolls  unconscious  and  unseeing, 
And  is  as  Number  or  as  Sound. 

And  through  the  vast  fantastic  visions 

Of  all  this  actual  universe, 
It  moves  un swerved  by  our  decisions, 

And  is  the  play  that  we  rehearse. 

Antiphon  to  the  Holy  Spirit 

Men  and  Women  sing. 

Men. 
THOU  that  movest  all,  O  Power 

That  bringest  life  where'er  Thou  art, 
O  Breath  of  God  in  star  and  flower, 

Mysterious  aim  of  soul  and  heart ; 
Within  the  thought  that  cannot  grasp  Thee 

In  its  unfathomable  hold, 
We  worship  Thee  who  may  not  clasp  Thee, 
O  God,  unreckoned  and  untold  ! 


o 


AGNES  MARY  FRANCES  DUCLAUX       403 

Women. 
O  Source  and  Sea  of  Love,  O  Spirit 

That  makest  every  soul  akin, 
O  Comforter  whom  we  inherit, 

We  turn  and  worship  Thee  within ! 
To  give  beyond  all  dreams  of  giving, 

To  lose  ourselves  as  Thou  in  us, 
We  long  ;   for  Thou,  O  Fount  of  living, 

Art  lost  in  Thy  creation  thus ! 

Men. 
The  mass  of  unborn  matter  knew  Thee, 

And  lo  !   the  splendid  silent  sun 
Sprang  out  to  be  a  witness  to  Thee 

Who  art  the  All,  who  art  the  One  ; 
The  airy  plants  unseen  that  flourish 

Their  floating  strands  of  filmy  rose, 
Too  small  for  sight,  are  Thine  to  nourish  ; 

For  Thou  art  all  that  breathes  and  grows. 

Women. 
Thou  art  the  ripening  of  the  fallows, 

The  swelling  of  the  buds  in  rain  ; 
Thou  art  the  joy  of  birth  that  hallows 

The  rending  of  the  flesh  in  twain  ; 
O  Life,  O  Love,  how  undivided 

Thou  broodest  o'er  this  world  of  Thine, 
Obscure  and  strange,  yet  surely  guided 

To  reach  a  distant  end  divine  1 

Men. 
We  know  Thee  in  the  doubt  and  terror 

That  reels  before  the  world  we  see  ; 
We  know  Thee  in  the  faiths  of  error  ; 

We  know  Thee  most  who  most  are  free. 


404      AGNES  MARY  FRANCES  DUCLAUX 

This  phantom  of  the  world  around  Thee 
Is  vast,  divine,  but  not  the  whole  : 

We  worship  Thee,  and  we  have  found  Thee 
In  all  that  satisfies  the  soul ! 

Men  and  Women. 
How  shall  we  serve,  how  shall  we  own  Thee, 

O  breath  of  Love  and  Life  and  Thought  ? 
How  shall  we  praise,  who  are  not  shown  Thee 

How  shall  we  serve,  who  are  as  nought  ? 
Yet,  though  Thy  worlds  maintain  unbroken 

The  silence  of  their  awful  round, 
A  voice  within  our  souls  hath  spoken, 

And  we  who  seek  have  more  than  found. 

MAY  PROBYN 
The  Beloved 

WHEN  the  storm  was  in  the  sky, 
And  the  west  was  black  with  showers, 
My  Beloved  came  by 

With  His  Hands  full  of  flowers — 
Red  burning  flowers, 
Like  flame  that  pulsed  and  throbbed — 

And  beyond  in  the  rain-smitten  bowers 
The  turtle-dove  sobbed. 

(Sweet  in  the  rough  weather 

The  voice  of  the  turtle-dove — 
'  Beautiful  altogether 

Is  my  Love. 

His  Hands  are  open  spread  for  love 
And  full  of  jacinth  stones — 

As  the  apple-tree  among  trees  of  the  grove 
Is  He  among  the  sons.' 


MAY  PROBYN  405 

The  voice  of  the  turtle-dove 

Sweet  in  the  wild  weather — 
'  Until  the  daybreak  dwells  my  Love 

Among  the  hills  of  Bether. 

Among  the  lilied  lawns  of  Bether, 
As  a  young  hart  untired — 

Chosen  out  of  thousands, — altogether 
To  be  desired.') 

When  the  night  was  in  the  sky, 
And  heavily  went  the  hours, 

My  Beloved  drew  nigh 

With  His  Hands  full  of  flowers- 
Burning  red  flowers 

Like  cups  of  scented  wine — 

And  He  said,  '  They  are  all  ours, 

Thine  and  Mine. 

1 1  gathered  them  from  the  bitter  Tree — 

Why  dost  thou  start  ? 
I  gathered  the  Five  of  them  for  thee, 

Child  of  My  Heart. 

These  are  they  that  have  wrung  my  Heart, 
And  with  fiercest  pangs  have  moved  Me — 

I  gathered  them — why  dost  thou  shrink  apart  ? 
In  the  house  of  them  that  loved  Me.' 

(Sweet  through  the  rain-swept  blast 

The  moan  of  the  turtle-dove — 
'  You,  that  see  Him  go  past, 

Tell  Him  I  languish  with  love. 

Thou  hast  wounded  my  heart,  O  my  Love  ! 
With  but  one  look  of  Thine  eyes, 

While  yet  the  boughs  are  naked  above 
And  winter  is  in  the  skies.') 


4o6  MAY  PROBYN 

1  Honey-laden  flowers 

For  the  children  nursed  on  the  knee, 
Who  sow  not  bramble  among  their  bowers — 

But  what '  He  said  '  for  thee  ? 

Not  joys  of  June  for  thee, 
Not  lily,  no,  nor  rose — 

For  thee  the  blossom  of  the  bitter  Tree, 
More  sweet  than  ought  that  blows.' 

(The  voice  of  the  turtle-dove — 

*  How  shall  my  heart  be  fed 
With  pleasant  apples  of  love, 

When  the  winter  time  has  fled. 

The  rain  and  the  winter  fled, 
How  all  His  gifts  shall  grace  me, 

When  His  Left  Hand  is  under  my  head, 
And  His  Right  Hand  doth  embrace  me.') 


B 


SIR  JAMES  RENNELL  RODD 

b.  1858 

From  '  In  Excehis  ' 

>Y  those  heights  we  dare  to  dare, 
By  the  greatness  of  our  prayer, 
Ever  growing,  loftier  reaching 
To  a  royaller  beseeching, 
By  the  olden  woes  washed  painless,  white  and  stainless 

in  the  tears  of  bitter  price, 
By  the  strength  of  our  assurance  to  endurance  of  the  need 

of  sacrifice, 

Not  by  dreaming  but  by  using, 
Not  by  claiming  but  refusing, 
Then  shall  dawn  on  eyes  unsealing  the  revealing  of  a  self 

that  knows  and  grows, 

And  the  stream  of  thy  devotion  find  the  ocean  when  its 
meaning  overflows. 


SIR  JAMES  RENNELL  RODD  407 

So  take  the  thread  that  seemed  so  frail, 
Have  faith  to  hope  and  never  quail, 
For  all  the  weary  woes  of  earth 
And  all  the  hollowness  of  mirth, 
Accept  but  this  divine  in  man 
Believe  I  ought  to  means  I  can, 
And  comprehend  the  perfect  plan. 

Lift  thee  o'er  thy  *  here  '  and  t  now  ', 
Look  beyond  thine  *  I '  and  '  thou  ', 
Every  effort  points  the  next, 
And  the  way  grows  unperplexed 
To  wider  ranges,  larger  scope, 
All  things  possible  to  hope  ! 
Till  thou  feel  the  breath  of  morning  shadow  scorning, 

and  on  spirit  wings  unfurled 
Win  the  way  to  realms  of  wonder, 
Rolling  starward  with  the  thunder, 
Flashing  earthwards  with  the  lightning  to  the  brightening 

the  dark  edges  of  the  world, 
Till  the  vastness  shall  absorb  thee, 
And  the  light  of  lights  enorb  thee, 
And  the  wings  on  which  thou  soarest 

Thou  wilt  need  to  shade  thine  eyes, 
For  the  radiance  thou  adorest, 

For  the  nearness  of  sunrise  ; 
Then  thy  strongest  strength  shall  be 
In  thine  own  humility, 
Wrapt  into  the  holiest  holy 

In  thy  worship  vastly  aisled, 
.     Bend  the  knee  and  whisper  lowly 

'  Our  Father  '  with  the  child  ! 


408 

VICTOR  JAMES  DALEY 

1858-1905 
The  Foice  of  the  Soul 

IN  Youth,  when  through  our  veins  runs  fast 
The  bright  red  stream  of  life, 
The  Soul's  Voice  is  a  trumpet-blast 
That  calls  us  to  the  strife. 

The  Spirit  spurns  its  prison-bars, 
f**And  feels  with  force  endued 
To  scale  the  ramparts  of  the  stars 
And  storm  Infinitude. 

Youth  passes ;  like  a  dungeon  grows 

The  Spirit's  house  of  clay  : 
The  voice  that  once  in  music  rose 

In  murmurs  dies  away. 

But  in  the  day  when  sickness  sore 

Smites  on  the  body's  walls, 
The  Soul's  Voice  through  the  breach  once  more 

Like  to  a  trumpet  calls. 

Well  shall  it  be  with  him  who  heeds 

The  mystic  summons  then  ! 
His  after-life  with  loving  deeds 

Shall  blossom  amongst  men. 

He  shall  have  gifts — the  gift  that  feels 

The  germ  within  the  clod, 
And  hears  the  whirring  of  the  wheels 

That  turn  the  mills  of  God  ! 


VICTOR  JAMES  DALEY  409 

The  gift  that  sees  with  glance  profound 

The  secret  soul  of  things, 
And  in  the  silence  hears  the  sound 

Of  vast  and  viewless  wings ! 

The  veil  of  Isis  sevenfold 

To  him  as  gauze  shall  be, 
Wherethrough,  clear-eyed,  he  shall  behold 

The  Ancient  Mystery. 

He  shall  do  battle  for  the  True, 

Defend  till  death  the  Right, 
With  Shoes  of  Swiftness  Wrong  pursue, 

With  Sword  of  Sharpness  smite. 

And,  dying,  he  shall  haply  hear, 

Like  golden  trumpets  blown 
For  joy,  far  voices  sweet  and  clear — 

Soul-voices  like  his  own. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

1859-1907 
The  Hound  of  Heaven 

I  FLED  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days  ; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  arches  of  the  years ; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  labyrinthine  ways 

Of  my  own  mind  ;  and  in  the  mist  of  tears 
I  hid  from  Him,  and  under  running  laughter. 
Up  vistaed  hopes  I  sped  ; 
And  shot,  precipitated, 
Adown  Titanic  glooms  of  chasmed  fears, 

From  those  strong  Feet  that  followed,  followed  after. 


4io  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

But  with  unhurrying  chase, 

And  unperturbed  pace,     . 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 

They  beat — and  a  Voice  beat 

More  instant  than  the  Feet — 
'  All  things  betray  thee,  who  betrayest  Me.' 

I  pleaded,  outlaw-wise, 
By  many  a  hearted  casement,  curtained  red, 

Trellised  with  intertwining  charities ; 
(For,  though  I  knew  His  love  Who  followed, 

Yet  was  I  sore  adread 

Lest,  having  Him,  I  must  have  naught  beside). 
But,  if  one  little  casement  parted  wide, 

The  gust  of  His  approach  would  clash  it  to. 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade,  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 
Across  the  margent  of  the  world  I  fled, 

And  troubled  the  gold  gateways  of  the  stars, 
Smiting  for  shelter  on  their  clanged  bars ; 

Fretted  to  dulcet  jars 

And  silvern  chatter  the  pale  ports  o'  the  moon. 
I  said  to  Dawn  :  Be  sudden — to  Eve  :  Be  soon  ; 
With  thy  young  skiey  blossoms  heap  me  over 

From  this  tremendous  Lover — 
Float  thy  vague  veil  about  me,  lest  He  see  ! 
I  tempted  all  His  servitors,  but  to  find 
My  own  betrayal  in  their  constancy, 
In  faith  to  Him  their  fickleness  to  me, 

Their  traitorous  trueness,  and  their  loyal  deceit 
To  all  swift  things  for  swiftness  did  I  sue  ; 

Clung  to  the  whistling  mane  of  every  wind. 
But  whether  they  swept,  smoothly  fleet, 
The  long  savannahs  of  the  blue  ; 

Or  whether,  Thunder-driven, 
They  clanged  his  chariot  'thwart  a  heaven, 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON  411 

Flashy  with  flying  lightnings  round  the  spurn  o'  their 

feet:— 

Fear  wist  not  to  evade  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 
Still  with  unhurrying  chase, 
And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 
Came  on  the  following  Feet, 
And  a  Voice  above  their  beat — 
'  Naught  shelters  thee,  who  wilt  not  shelter  Me.' 

I  sought  no  more  that  after  which  I  strayed 

In  face  of  man  or  maid ; 
But  still  within  the  little  children's  eyes 

Seems  something,  something  that  replies, 
They  at  least  are  for  me,  surely  for  me  ! 
I  turned  me  to  them  very  wistfully  ; 
But  just  as  their  young  eyes  grew  sudden  fair 

With  dawning  answers  there, 
Their  angel  plucked  them  from  me  by  the  hair. 
*  Come  then,  ye  other  children,  Nature's — share 
With  me  '  (said  I)  '  your  delicate  fellowship  ; 

Let  me  greet  you  lip  to  lip, 

Let  me  twine  with  you  caresses, 
Wantoning 

With  our  Lady-Mother's  vagrant  tresses, 
Banqueting 

With  her  in  her  wind- walled  palace, 

Underneath  her  azured  da'is, 

Quaffing,  as  your  taintless  way  is, 

From  a  chalice 
Lucent-weeping  out  of  the  dayspring.' 

So  it  was  done  : 

I  in  their  delicate  fellowship  was  one — 
Drew  the  bolt  of  Nature's  secrecies. 

J  knew  all  the  swift  importings 


4i2  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

On  the  wilful  face  of  skies ; 
I  knew  how  the  clouds  arise 
Spumed  of  the  wild  sea-snortings  ; 

All  that 's  born  or  dies 

Rose  and  drooped  with  ;   made  them  shapers 
Of  mine  own  moods,  or  wailful  or  divine  ; 
With  them  joyed  and  was  bereaven. 
I  was  heavy  with  the  even, 
When  she  lit  her  glimmering  tapers 
Round  the  day's  dead  sanctities. 
I  laughed  in  the  morning's  eyes. 
I  triumphed  and  I  saddened  with  all  weather, 

Heaven  and  I  wept  together, 
And  its  sweet  tears  were  salt  with  mortal  mine  ; 
Against  the  red  throb  of  its  sunset-heart 
I  laid  my  own  to  beat, 
And  share  commingling  heat ; 

But  not  by  that,  by  that,  was  eased  my  human  smart. 
In  vain  my  tears  were  wet  on  Heaven's  grey  cheek. 
For  ah  !  we  know  not  what  each  other  says, 

These  things  and  I ;  in  sound  /  speak — 
Their  sound  is  but  their  stir,  they  speak  by  silences. 
Nature,  poor  stepdame,  cannot  slake  my  drouth  ; 

Let  her,  if  she  would  owe  me, 
Drop  yon  blue  bosom-veil  of  sky,  and  show  me 

The  breasts  o'  her  tenderness : 
Never  did  any  milk  of  hers  once  bless 
My  thirsting  mouth. 
Nigh  and  nigh  draws  the  chase, 
With  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy  ; 
And  past  those  noised  Feet 
A  voice  comes  yet  more  fleet — 
'  Lo !  naught  contents  thee,  who  content'st  not  Me ! ' 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON  413 

Naked  I  wait  Thy  love's  uplifted  stroke  ! 
My  harness  piece  by  piece  Thou  hast  hewn  from  me, 
And  smitten  me  to  my  knee  ; 

I  am  defenceless  utterly. 

I  slept,  methinks,  and  woke, 
And,  slowly  gazing,  find  me  stripped  in  sleep. 
In  the  rash  lustihead  of  my  young  powers, 

I  shook  the  pillaring  hours 

And  pulled  my  life  upon  me  ;  grimed  with  smears, 
I  stand  amid  the  dust  o'  the  mounded  years — 
My  mangled  youth  lies  dead  beneath  the  heap. 
My  days  have  crackled  and  gone  up  in  smoke, 
Have  puffed  and  burst  as  sun-starts  on  a  stream. 

Yea,  faileth  now  even  dream 
The  dreamer,  and  the  lute  the  lutanist ; 
Even  the  linked  fantasies,  in  whose  blossomy  twist 
I  swung  the  earth  a  trinket  at  my  wrist, 
Are  yielding  ;  cords  of  all  too  weak  account 
For  earth  with  heavy  griefs  so  overplussed. 

Ah  !  is  Thy  love  indeed 
A  weed,  albeit  an  amaranthine  weed, 
Suffering  no  flowers  except  its  own  to  mount  ? 

Ah  !  must — 

Designer  infinite  ! — 
Ah  !    must  Thou  char  the  wood  ere  Thou  canst  limn 

with  it  ? 

My  freshness  spent  its  wavering  shower  i'  the  dust ; 
And  now  my  heart  is  as  a  broken  fount, 
Wherein  tear-drippings  stagnate,  spilt  down  ever 

From  the  dank  thoughts  that  shiver 
Upon  the  sighful  branches 'of  my  mind. 

Such  is ;  what  is  to  be  ? 
The  pulp  so  bitter,  how  shall  taste  the  rind  ? 
I  dimly  guess  what  Time  in.  mists  confounds ; 


4i4  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

Yet  ever  and  anon  a  trumpet  sounds 

From  the  hid  battlements  of  Eternity ; 

Those  shaken  mists  a  space  unsettle,  then 

Round  the  half-glimpsed  turrets  slowly  wash  again. 

But  not  ere  him  who  summoneth 

I  first  have  seen,  enwound 

With  glooming  robes  purpureal,  cypress-crowned  ; 
His  name  I  know,  and  what  his  trumpet  saith. 
Whether  man's  heart  or  life  it  be  which  yields 

Thee  harvest,  must  Thy  harvest-fields 

Be  dunged  with  rotten  death  ? 

Now  of  that  long  pursuit 
Comes  on  at  hand  the  bruit ; 

That  Voice  is  round  me  like  a  bursting  sea  : 
'  And  is  thy  earth  so  marred, 
Shattered  in  shard  on  shard  ? 

Lo,  all  things  fly  thee,  for  thou  fliest  Me  ! 

Strange,  piteous,  futile  thing  ! 
Wherefore  should  any  set  thee  love  apart  ? 
Seeing  none  but  I  makes  much  of  naught '  (He  said), 
'And  human  love  needs  human  meriting  : 

How  hast  thou  merited — 
Of  all  man's  clotted  clay  the  dingiest  clot  ? 

Alack,  thou  knowest  not 
How  little  worthy  of  any  love  thou  art  ! 
Whom  wilt  thou  find  to  love  ignoble  thee, 

Save  Me,  save  only  Me  ? 
All  which  I  took  from  thee  I  did  but  take, 

Not  for  thy  harms, 
But  just  that  thou  might'st  seek  it  in  My  arms. 

All  which  thy  child's  mistake 
Fancies  as  lost,  I  have  stored  for  thee  at  home  : 

Rise,  clasp  My  hand,  and  come  1 ' 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON  415 

Halts  by  me  that  footfall : 

Is  my  gloom,  after  all, 
Shade  of  His  hand,  outstretched  caressingly  ? 

1  Ah,  fondest,  blindest,  weakest, 

I  am  He  Whom  thou  seekest ! 
Thou  dravest  love  from  thee,  who  dravest  Me.' 


From  '  The  Mistress  of  Vision ' 

WHERE  is  the  land  of  Luthany, 
Where  is  the  tract  of  Elenore  ? 
I  am  bound  therefor. 

'  Pierce  thy  heart  to  find  the  key ; 
With  thee  take 

Only  what  none  else  would  keep  ; 
Learn  to  dream  when  thou  dost  wake, 
Learn  to  wake  when  thou  dost  sleep. 
Learn  to  water  joy  with  tears, 
Learn  from  fears  to  vanquish  fears  ; 
To  hope,  for  thou  dar'st  not  despair, 
Exult,  for  that  thou  dar'st  not  grieve  ; 
Plough  thou  the  rock  until  it  bear  ; 
Know,  for  thou  else  couldst  not  believe  ; 
Lose,  that  the  lost  thou  may'st  receive  ; 
Die,  for  none  other  way  canst  live. 
When  earth  and  heaven  lay  down  their  veil, 
And  that  apocalypse  turns  thee  pale  ; 
When  thy  seeing  blindeth  thee 
To  what  thy  fellow-mortals  see  ; 
When  their  sight  to  thee  is  sightless  ; 
Their  living,  death  ;   their  light,  most  lightless  ; 
Search  no  more — 
Pass  the  gates  of  Luthany,  tread  the  region  Elenore.' 


416  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

Where  is  the  land  of  Luthany, 
And  where  the  region  Elenore  ? 
I  do  faint  therefor. 

1  When  to  the  new  eyes  of  thee 
All  things  by  immortal  power, 
Near  or  far, 
Hiddenly 

To  each  other  linked  are, 
That  thou  canst  not  stir  a  flower 
Without  troubling  of  a  star  ; 
When  thy  song  is  shield  and  mirror 
To  the  fair  snake-curled  Pain, 
Where  thou  dar'st  affront  her  terror 
That  on  her  thou  may'st  attain 
Persean  conquest ;    seek  no  more, 
O  seek  no  more  ! 
Pass  the  gates  of  Luthany,  tread  the  region  Elenore.' 


Orient  Ode 

I  O,  in  the  sanctuaried  East, 

L^Day,  a  dedicated  priest 

In  all  his  robes  pontifical  exprest, 

Lifteth  slowly,  lifteth  sweetly, 

From  ou.t  its  Orient  tabernacle  drawn, 

Yon  orbed  sacrament  confest 

Which  sprinkles  benediction  through  the  dawn  ; 

And  when  the  grave  procession's  ceased, 

The  earth  with  due  illustrious  rite 

Blessed, — ere  the  frail  fingers  featly 

Of  twilight,  violet-cassocked  acolyte, 

His  sacerdotal  stoles  unvest — 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON  417 

Sets,  for  high  close  of  the  mysterious  feast, 

The  sun  in  august  exposition  meetly 

Within  the  flaming  monstrance  of  the  West.  .  .  . 

To  thine  own  shape 

Thou  round'st  the  chrysolite  of  the  grape, 

Bind'st  thy  gold  lightnings  in  his  veins ; 

Thou  storest  the  white  garners  of  the  rains. 

Destroyer  and  preserver,  thou 

Who  medicinest  sickness,  and  to  health 

Art  the  unthanked  marrow  of  its  wealth  ; 

To  those  apparent  sovereignties  we  bow 

And  bright  appurtenances  of  thy  brow  ! 

Thy  proper  blood  dost  thou  not  give, 

That  Earth,  the  gusty  Maenad,  drink  and  dance  ? 

Art  thou  not  life  of  them  that  live  ? 

Yea,  in  glad  twinkling  advent,  thou  dost  dwell 

Within  our  body  as  a  tabernacle  ! 

Thou  bittest  with  thine  ordinance 

The  jaws  of  Time,  and  thou  dost  mete 

The  unsustainable  treading  of  his  feet. 

Thou  to  thy  spousal  universe 

Art  Husband,  she  thy  Wife  and  Church  ; 

Who  in  most  dusk  and  vidual  curch, 

Her  Lord  being  hence, 

Keeps  her  cold  sorrows  by  thy  hearse. 

The  heavens  renew  their  innocence 

And  morning  state 

But  by  thy  sacrament  communicate  ; 

Their  weeping  night  the  symbol  of  our  prayers, 

Our  darkened  search, 

And  sinful  vigil  desolate. 

Yea,  biune  in  imploring  dumb, 

Essential  Heavens  and  corporal  Earth  await ; 

MYST.  p 


4i8  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

The  Spirit  and  the  Bride  say  :  Come  ! 

Lo,  of  thy  Magians  I  the  least 

Haste  with  my  gold,  my  incenses  and  myrrhs, 

To  thy  desired  epiphany,  from  the  spiced 

Regions  and  odorous  of  Song's  traded  East. 

Thou,  for  the  life  of  all  that  live 

The  victim  daily  born  and  sacrificed  ; 

To  whom  the  pinion  of  this  longing  verse 

Beats  but  with  fire  which  first  thyself  did  give, 

To  thee,  O  Sun — or  is't  perchance,  to  Christ  ? 

Ay,  if  men  say  that  on  all  high  heaven's  face 

The  saintly  signs  I  trace 

Which  round  my  stoled  altars  hold  their  solemn  place, 

Amen,  amen  !  For  oh,  how  could  it  be, — 

When  I  with  winged  feet  had  run 

Through  all  the  windy  earth  about, 

Quested  its  secret  of  the  sun, 

And  heard  what  thing  the  stars  together  shout, — 

I  should  not  heed  thereout 

Consenting  counsel  won  : — 

'  By  this,  O  Singer,  know  we  if  thou  see. 

When  men  shall  say  to  thee  :  Lo  !  Christ  is  here, 

When  men  shall  say  to  thee  :   Lo  !   Christ  is  there, 

Believe  them  :  yea,  and  this — then  art  thou  seer, 

When  all  thy  crying  clear 

Is  but :  Lo  here  !  lo  there  ! — ah  me,  lo  everywhere  ! ' 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON  419 


jlssumpta  Maria 

*    IIJ'ORTALS,  that  behold  a  Woman 
J-vJ-    Rising  'tzvixt  the  Moon  and  Sun  ; 
Who  am  I  the  heavens  assume  ?  an 
All  am  /,  and  I  am  one. 


'  Multitudinous  ascend  I, 

Dreadful  as  a  battle  arrayed, 
For  I  bear  you  whither  tend  I ; 

Ye  are  I :  be  undismayed  ! 

I,  the  Ark  that  for  the  graven 
Tables  of  the  Law  was  made  ; 

Man's  own  heart  was  one  ;   one,  Heaven  ; 
Both  within  my  womb  were  laid. 
For  there  Anteros  with  Eros, 

Heaven  with  man,  conjoined  was, — 
Twin-stone  of  the  Law,  Iscbyros, 
Agios  Athanatos. 

I 1,  the  flesh-girt  Paradises 
Gardenered  by  the  Adam  new, 

Daintied  o'er  with  dear  devices 

Which  He  loveth,  for  He  grew. 
I,  the  boundless  strict  savannah 

Which  God's  leaping  feet  go  through ; 
I,  the  heaven  whence  the  Manna, 
Weary  Israel,  slid  on  you  ! 
He  the  Anteros  and  Eros, 

I  the  body,  He  the  Cross ; 
He  upbeareth  me,  Iscbyros, 
Agios  Athanatos  ! 


420  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

'  I  am  Daniel's  mystic  Mountain, 

Whence  the  mighty  stone  was  rolled  ; 
I  am  the  four  Rivers'  Fountain, 

Watering  Paradise  of  old  ; 
Cloud  down-raining  the  Just  One  am, 

Danae  of  the  Shower  of  Gold ; 
I  the  Hostel  of  the  Sun  am  ; 
He  the  Lamb,  and  I  the  Fold. 
He  the  Anteros  and  Eros, 

I  the  body,  He  the  Cross  ; 
He  is  fast  to  me,  Ischyros, 
Agios  Atbanatos  ! 

f  I,  the  presence-hall  where  Angels 
Do  enwheel  their  placed  King — 
Even  my  thoughts  which,  without  change  else, 

Cyclic  burn  and  cyclic  sing. 
To  the  hollow  of  Heaven  transplanted, 

I  a  breathing  Eden  spring, 
Where  with  venom  all  outpanted 
Lies  the  slimed  Curse  shrivelling. 
For  the  brazen  Serpent  clear  on 

That  old  fanged  knowledge  shone  ; 
I  to  Wisdom  rise,  Iscbyron, 
Agion  Athanaton  / 

'  Then  commanded  and  spake  to  me 

He  who  framed  all  things  that  be  ; 
And  my  Maker  entered  through  me, 

In  my  tent  His  rest  took  He. 
Lo  !  He  standeth,  Spouse  and  Brother, 

I  to  Him,  and  He  to  me, 
Who  upraised  me  where  my  mother 

Fell,  beneath  the  apple-tree. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON  421 

Risen  'twixt  Anteros  and  Eros, 

Blood  and  Water,  Moon  and  Sun, 
He  upbears  me,  He  Isckyros, 

I  bear  Him,  the  Athanaton  /  ' 


Where  is  laid  the  Lord  arisen  ? 

In  the  light  we  walk  in  gloom ; 
Though  the  Sun  has  burst  his  prison, 

We  know  not  his  biding-room. 
Tell  us  where  the  Lord  sojourneth, 

For  we  find  an  empty  tomb. 
*  Whence  He  sprung,  there  He  returneth, 
Mystic  Sun, — the  Virgin's  Womb.' 
Hidden  Sun,  His  beams  so  near  us, 

Cloud  enpillared  as  He  was 

From  of  old,  there  He,  Ischyros, 

Waits  our  search,  Athanatos. 


'  Who  will  give  Him  me  for  brother, 

Counted  of  my  family, 
Sucking  the  sweet  breasts  of  my  Mother  ? — 

I  His  flesh,  and  mine  is  He  ; 
To  my  Bread  myself  the  bread  is, 

And  my  Wine  doth  drink  me  :  see, 
His  left  hand  beneath  my  head  is. 
His  right  hand  embraceth  me  ! ' 
Sweetest  Anteros  and  Eros,' 

Lo,  her  arms  He  learns  across ; 
Dead  that  we  die  not,  stooped  to  rear  us, 
Thanatos  Athanatos. 


422  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

Who  is  She,  in  candid  vesture. 

Rushing  up  from  out  the  brine  ? 
Treading  with  resilient  gesture 

Air,  and  with  that  Cup  divine  ? 
She  in  us  and  we  in  her  are, 

Beating  Godward  ;  all  that  pine, 
Lo,  a  wonder  and  a  terror — 
The  Sun  hath  blushed  the  Sea  to  Wine  ! 
He  the  Anteros  and  Eros, 

She  the  Bride  and  Spirit ;  for 

Now  the  days  of  promise  near  us, 

And  the  Sea  shall  be  no  more. 

Open  wide  thy  gates,  O  Virgin, 

That  the  King  may  enter  thee  ! 
At  all  gates  the  clangours  gurge  in, 
God's  paludament  lightens,  see  ! 
Camp  of  Angels !  Well  we  even 

Of  this  thing  may  doubtful  be, — 
If  thou  art  assumed  to  Heaven, 
Or  is  Heaven  assumed  to  thee  ! 

Consummatum.    Christ  the  promised, 

Thy  maiden  realm,  is  won,  O  Strong  ! 
Since  to  such  sweet  Kingdom  comest, 
Remember  me,  poor  Thief  of  Song ! 

Cadent  fails  the  stars  along  : — 
Mortals,  that  behold  a  Woman 

Rising  *twixt  the  Moon  and  Sun  ; 
Who  am  I  the  heavens  assume  ?  an 

All  am  /,  and  I  am  one. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON  423 


The  Veteran  of  Heaven 

O CAPTAIN  of  the  wars,  whence  won  Ye  so  great 
scars  ? 
In  what  fight  did  Ye  smite,  and  what  manner  was  the 

foe? 

Was  it  on  a  day  of  rout  they  compassed  Thee  about, 
Or  gat  Ye  these  adornings  when  Ye  wrought  their 
overthrow  ? 


'  'Twas  on  a  day  of  rout  they  girded  Me  about, 

They  wounded  all  My  brow,   and  they  smote  Me 

through  the  side  : 

My  hand  held  no  sword  when  I  met  their  armed  horde, 
And  the  conqueror  fell  down,   and  the   Conquered 
bruised  his  pride.' 

What  is  this,  unheard  before,  that  the  Unarmed  make 

war, 
And  the  Slain  hath  the  gain,  and  the  Victor  hath  the 

rout  ? 
What  wars,  then,  are  these,  and  what  the  enemies, 

Strange  Chief,  with  the  scars  of  Thy  conquest  trenched 
about  ? 

*  The  Prince   I  drave   forth   held  the   Mount   of   the 

North, 
Girt  with  the  guards   of  flame  that  roll  round  the 

pole. 

L  drave  him  with  My  wars  from  all  his  fortress-stars, 
And  the  sea  of  death  divided  that  My  march  might 
strike  its  goal. 


424  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

1  In  the  keep  of  Northern  Guard,  many  a  great  daemonian 

sword 

Burns  as  it  turns  round  the  Mount  occult,  apart : 
There  is  given  him  power  and  place  still  for  some  certain 

days, 

And  his  name  would  turn  the  Sun's  blood  back  upon 
its  heart.' 

What  is  Thy  Name  ?    Oh,  show !— '  My  Name  ye  may 

not  know ; 
'Tis  a  going  forth  with  banners,  and  a  baring  of  much 

swords  : 

But  My  titles  that  are  high,  are  they  not  upon  My  thigh  ? 
"  King  of  Kings !  "  are  the  words,  "  Lord  of  Lords  !  " 
It  is  written  "  King  of  Kings,  Lord  of  Lords ".' 


Desiderium  In  desideratum 

OGAIN  that  lurk'st  ungained  in  all  gain  ! 
O  love  we  just  fall  short  of  in  all  love  ! 
O  height  that  in  all  heights  art  still  above  ! 

0  beauty  that  dost  leave  all  beauty  pain  ! 
Thou  unpossessed  that  mak'st  possession  vain, 

See  these  strained  arms  which  fright  the  simple  air, 
And  say  what  ultimate  fairness  holds  thee,  Fair  ! 
They  girdle  Heaven,  and  girdle  Heaven  in  vain  ; 
They  shut,  and  lo  !  but  shut, in  their  unrest. 
Thereat  a  voice  in  me  that  voiceless  was : — 

1  Whom  seekest  thou  through  the  unmarged  arcane, 
And  not  discern'st  to  thine  own  bosom  prest  ?  ' 

I  looked.    My  clasped  arms  athwart  my  breast 
Framed  the  august  embraces  of  the  Cross. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON  425 


The  Kingdom  of  God 

O  WORLD  invisible,  we  view  thee, 
O  world  intangible,  we  touch  thee, 
O  world  unknowable,  we  know  thee. 
Inapprehensible,  we  clutch  thee  ! 

Does  the  fish  soar  to  find  the  ocean, 
The  eagle  plunge  to  find  the  air — 
That  we  ask  of  the  stars  in  motion 
If  they  have  rumour  of  thee  there  ? 

Not  where  the  wheeling  systems  darken, 
And  our  benumbed  conceiving  soars  ! — 
The  drift  of  pinions,  would  we  hearken, 
Beats  at  our  own  clay-shuttered  doors. 

The  angels  keep  their  ancient  places ; — 
Turn  but  a  stone,  and  startfa  wing  ! 
'Tis  ye,  'tis  your  estranged  faces, 
That  miss  the  many-splendoured  thing. 

But  (when  so  sad  thou  canst  not  sadder) 
Cry ; — and  upon  thy  so  sore  loss 
Shall  shine  the  traffic  of  Jacob's  ladder 
Pitched  betwixt  Heaven  and  Charing  Cross. 

Yea,  in  the  night,  my  Soul,  my  daughter, 
Cry, — clinging  Heaven  by  the  hems  ; 
And  lo,  Christ  walking  on  the  water 
Not  of  Gennesareth,  but  Thames ! 


426 
HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING 

b. 1859 

The  Tree  of  Life 

Recognition  in  four  Seasons 

ARGUMENT 

A  prophet,  desiring  to  recover  for  men  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of 
Life,  seems  to  find  Paradise  by  certain  traditional  signs  of  beauty 
in  nature.  He  is  further  persuaded  by  observing  the  beauty 
and  innocence  of  children.  By  and  by  he  comes  upon  the  Tree 
of  Knowledge,  whose  fruit,  now  old,  he  discerns  to  be  evil ; 
but  from  which,  to  his  desire,  new  is  brought  forth,  which  is  good. 
At  each  recognition  one  of  the  Guardian  Angels  of  the  Tree  of 
Life  is  withdrawn,  until  there  is  left  only  the  Angel  of  Death,  in 
the  light  of  whose  sword  he  perceives  it.  The  Angels'  songs  are 
not  heard  by  the  prophet. 

I.    SPRING 
Prophet 

OTREE  of  life,  blissful  tree, 
Old  as  the  world,  still  springing  green, 
Planted,  watered  by  God  ;  whose  fruit 
Hath  year  by  year  fallen  about  the  root, 

And  century  by  century  ; 
Grant  me  that  I  thy  glory  unseen 
At  last  attain  to  see  ! 

Chorus  of  Angels 
The  flame  of  our  eyes  still  hideth 

The  fatal  tree  : 
Which  God  in  charge  confideth 

That  none  may  see, 
Till  'gainst  our  light  advances 

A  purer  ray, 
And  melts  with  fervid,  glances 

Our  swords  of  day. 


HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING 


427 


Conside 
rate  lilia 
agri 

quomodo 
crescunt. 


Prophet 

This  garden  I  consider  :  if  not  the  wise 
Repute  it  Paradise, 

The  wise  may  err  and  ancient  fame  be  lost ; 
As  Ophir  on  the  swart  Arabian  coast, — 
Whence  she,  of  Saba  queen, 
In  silk  raiment  and  gold, 
Bearing  spices  manifold, 
Not  unlike  this  lily's  purer  sheen, 
Came  a  weary  way  to  salute  Solomon, 
Fainting  to  see,  and  fainted  having  seen, 
Such  wisdom  dazzled  from  his  throne, — 

Now  Ophir  lies  unknown  ; 
Yet  stumbling  haply  on  gold,  a  man  shall  say 
Who  feeds  his  flock   by  the  well, 

'  Lo  Ophir  ! '  what  if  I  to-day 
A  like  token  recover,  and  tell. 

Chorus  of  Angels 
The  fire  of  our  heart  presages 

(And  gins  to  dim,) 
That  though  through  ageless  ages 

We  wait  for  him 
He  comes  ;   our  glory  retires, 

And  shrinks  from  strife, 
Folding  in  closer  fires 

The  Tree  of  Life. 

Prophet 

Goeth  up  a  mist, 
To  water  the  ground  from  the  four  streams  at 

even  ; 
Wrapt  in  a  veil  of  amethyst 


428  HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING 

The  trees  and  thickets  wait  for  Spring  to  appear, 

An  angel  out  of  heaven, 

Bringing  apparel  new  for  the  new  year  ; 

In  the  soft  light  the  birds 

Reset  to  the  loved  air  the  eternal  words, 

And  in  the  woods  primroses  peer. 

Angel  of  the  Spring 
He  hath  seen  me  with  eyes  of  wonder 

And  named  my  name, 
My  shield  is  riven  in  sunder, 

And  quencht  my  Jlame  : 
My  task  is  done,  and  rewarded 

If  faithfully ; 
By  others  now  is  guarded 

The  mystic  tree. 

II.    SUMMER 

Prophet 

O  tree  of  life,  blessed  tree, 
When  shall  I  thy  beauty  attain  to  see  ? 
New  fledged  ev'n  now,  new  canopied  with 

green, 
(Not  darkening  ever  as  these  in  brooding  heat,) 

To  beasts  of  the  field  a  screen, 
A  shadowy  bower  for  weary  eyes  and  feet  : 
Tree  by  tree  musing,  I  find  not  thee. 

Sinite          See,  in  the  rippling  water  the  children  at  play, 
parvulos,     Flashing  hitlier  and  Cither,  diamonded  with 

spray ; 
Lithe  and  fair  their  limbs,  their  hearts  light 

and  gay — 
As  fair  as  they  of  Niobe  : 


HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING  429 

Divinely  fair,  but  too  divinely  famed  ; 

Not  so  now  let  it  be. 

Children  of  Adam  these  by  birth  proclaimed, 
Clasping  a  mother's  breast,  a  father's  knee, 

By  father's  father  named. 

Ay,  but  see,  but  see, 
Their  mien  how  high,  how  free  their  spirit ! 

They  are  naked  and  not  ashamed 
Of  that  translucent  veil,  that  symmetry. 

How  they  shout  for  glee  ! 
It  is  the  primal  joy,  and  not  the  curse,  they 
inherit. 

A  child  of  Adam,  a  child  of  God  can  he  be  ? 

O  look,  look  and  see  ! 

The  Angels  of  Children 
His  ear  through  nature's  noises, 

Where'er  he  trod, 
Could  hear  in  the  children's  voices 

The  praise  of  God. 
Our  task  is  done,  and  rewarded 

If  faithfully, 
By  others  now  is  guarded 

The  mystic  tree. 

III.    AUTUMN 

Prophet 
Say  who  are  ye  upon  this  bank  reclining 

At  random  laid, 
Where  loaded  boughs  a  diaper  intertwining 

Of  fragrant  shade, 

Stretch  down  their  fruits  to  cheer  the  heart's 
repining. 


430  HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING 

Dicitenim   They  hear  me  not,  asleep,  or  drunken,  or  (ah  1) 

lelhL  dead' 

est.  O  Tree  of  Knowledge,  'tis  thou,  tree  divine 

Of  good  and  ill : — trembling,  I  view  thee. 

To  me,  as  them,  thy  golden  apples  incline, 

Able  to  slake  my  thirst,  or  else  undo  me. 

Which  shall  I  pluck,  which  dread 

Of  all  their  goodlihead  ? 

If  roots  be  twain,  from  which  there  flows 

To  these  elixir,  poison  to  those, 

How  can  I  track  their  currents  through  the 

stem 

Which  bears  and  buries  them  ? 
Nay,  but  it  cannot  be  the  tree  of  good  ; 
'Tis  utter  evil ;  to  nearer  view 
The  fruit  dislustres,  dull  of  hue, 
All  its  ripe  vermilion  vanished, 
Dead  fruit,  not  human  food  ; 
And  these  riiistaking  souls  from  life  are  banished. 
But  see, — a  wonder, — lo,  on  each  branch  swells 
A  new  fruit  ruddy-rinded,  that  smells 
Freshly,  and  from  their  places  in  decay 
The  old  shrivel  and  drop  away. 
The  ripeness  allures  to  taste,  O  what  should 

stay  me  ? 
Ill  was  the  old,  but  the  new  is  goodly  and 

sweet : 

A  blessing  is  in  it,  desire  to  greet, 
Not  a  curse  to  slay  me  ;. 
(O  divine  the  taste  !) 
Of  the  blind  to  open  the  eyes, 
Deaf  ears  to  unstop,  make  wise 
The  feeble-hearted,  and  to-day  (O  haste  !) 
For  these  poor  dead  the  tree  of  life  display  ! 


HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING  431 


Angel  of  the  Tree  of  Divine  Knowledge 

The  old  fruit  which  evil  bringeth 

He  hath  eschewed  ; 
I  breathe,  and  a  new  fruit  springeth  ; 

He  saw  it  good. 
My  task  is  done,  and  rewarded 

If  faithfully  ; 
By  others  now  is  guarded 

The  mystic  tree. 


IV.    WINTER 
Prophet 

I  had  thought  ere  this  to  have  blest  mine  eyes 

With  thy  vision  benign,  immortal  tree  ; 

For  since  that  fruit,  more  than  with  Euphrasy, 

My  spirits  are  all  alert,  my  sense  more  keen. 

Nor  is  the  north  that  chides  with  the  stript  boughs 

An  enemy,  if  it  shows 
All  these  but  mortal,  though  in  Paradise. 

But  thou,  O  still  unseen, 
Come  into  sight ;   not  yet  I  faint,  but  abide 
And  ever  abide,  yearning  thee  to  behold. 
Thee  following,  this  girdling  forest  wide, 
My  heart  by  hope  made  bold, 

I  have  laboured  through,  and  now  emerge  at  length 
Torn  by  the  briers,  spent  my  strength  ; 
But  branches  wintry-bare  deny  the  sheen 
Of  the  amaranthine  leaves  and  fruit  of  gold. 
Till  now  at  last  the  light 
Fails  from  my  hope  as  from  the  heaven, 


432  HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING 

Where   marshal  the   clouds,   blown   up   with 

boisterous  breath  ; 

The  trees  strain  from  the  blast  of  death 
Shrieking  convulsed,  so  fierce  the  hail  is  driven 

Across  the  vault  of  night. 
And  now  the  waving  brand 
Of  a  cherub  lightens  down 
And  rends  the  air  with  crashing  din  ; 
Ah,  if  it  be  by  God's  command 
To  show  light  in  the  darkness  of  nature's  frown 
Qui  per-      That  I  my  purpose  win  ! 

animam       Tt  flashes  and  sti11  flashes>  and  now  l  see 
suam  Beyond  the  blaze  glooming  a  tree,  a  tree, 

inveniet.      Stately  and  large, — (O  light  deceive  not, 
O  weary  eyes  not  now  believe  not !) — 
Unseen  before  ;   to  that  I  press, 
Despite  the  tempest  and  limbs'  tardiness. 
Lighten,  O  sword  divine,  to  clear  my  way, 
And  thou,  O  happy  heart,  upstay 
Steps  that  falter  and  swerve,  since  few 
Remain  ;  come  light  again,  I  shall  win  through. 

Angel  of  Death 

My  flame  he  hath  not  abhorred, 

Nor  nature's  strife, 
But  lightened  through  my  sword, 

Hath  passed  to  Life. 
My  task  is  done,  and  rewarded 

If  faithfully; 
Henceforth  no  more  is  guarded 

'The  mystic  tree. 


433 
ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE 

v  b. 1860 

At  the  End  of  Things 

THE  world  uprose  as  a  man  to  find  Him — 
Ten  thousand  methods,  ten  thousand  ends — 
Some  bent  on  treasure  ;  the  more  on  pleasure  ; 

And  some  on  the  chaplet  which  fame  attends  : 
But  the  great  deep's  voice  in  the  distance  dim 
Said  :  Peace,  it  is  well ;   they  are  seeking  Him. 

When  I  heard  that  all  the  world  was  questing, 

I  look'd  for  a  palmer's  staff  and  found, 
By  a  reed-fringed  pond,  a  fork'd  hazel-wand 

On  a  twisted  tree,  in  a  bann'd  waste-ground  ; 
But  I  knew  not  then  what  the  sounding  strings 
Of  the  sea-harps  say  at  the  end  of  things. 

They  told  me,  world,  you  were  keen  on  seeking  ; 

I  cast  around  for  a  scrip  to  hold 
Such  meagre  needs  as  the  roots  of  weeds — 

All  weeds,  but  one  with  a  root  of  gold  ; 
Yet  I  knew  not  then  how  the  clangs  ascend 
When  the  sea-horns  peal  and  the  searchings  end. 

An  old  worn  wallet  was  that  they  gave  me, 
With  twelve  old  signs  on  its  seven  old  skins ; 

And  a  star  I  stole  for  the  good  of  my  soul, 
Lest  the  darkness  came  down  on  my  sins ; 

For  I  knew  not  who  in  their  life  had  heard 

Of  the  sea-pipes  shrilling  a  secret  word. 


434  ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE 

I  join'd  the  quest  that  the  world  was  making, 
Which  follow'd  the  false  ways  far  and  wide, 

While  a  thousand  cheats  in  the  lanes  and  streets 
Offer'd  that  wavering  crowd  to  guide  ; 

But  what  did  they  know  of  the  sea-reed's  speech 

When  the  peace-words  breathe  at  the  end  for  each  ? 

The  fools  fell  down  in  the  swamps  and  marshes ; 

The  fools  died  hard  on  the  crags  and  hills ; 
The  lies  which  cheated,  so  long  repeated, 

Deceived,  in  spite  of  their  evil  wills, 
Some  knaves  themselves  at  the  end  of  all — 
Though  how  should  they  hearken  when  sea-flutes  call  ? 

But  me  the  scrip  and  the  staff  had  strengthen'd  ; 

I  carried  the  star ;  that  star  led  me  : 
The  paths  I've  taken,  of  most  forsaken, 

Do  surely  lead  to  an  open  sea  : 
As  a  clamour  of  voices  heard  in  sleep, 
Come  shouts  through  the  dark  on  the  shrouded  deep. 

Now  it  is  noon  ;  in  the  hush  prevailing 

Pipes,  harps  and  horns  into  flute-notes  fall ; 
The  sea,  conceding  my  star's  true  leading, 

In  tongues  sublime  at  the  end  of  all 
Gives  resonant  utterance  far  and  near  : — 
'  Cast  away  fear  ; 
Be  of  good  cheer  ; 
He  is  here, 
Is  here  !  ' 

And  now  I  know  that  I  sought  Him  only 
Even  as  child,  when  for  flowers  I  sought ; 

In  the  sins  of  youth,  as  in  search  for  truth, 
To  find  Him,  hold  Him  alone  I  wrought. 


ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE  435 

The  knaves  too  seek  Him,  and  fools  beguiled — 
So  speak  to  them  also,  sea-voices  mild  ! 

Which  then  was  wisdom  and  which  was  folly  ? 

Did  my  star  more  than  the  cozening  guide  f 
The  fool,  as  I  think,  at  the  chasm's  brink, 

Prone  by  the  swamp  or  the  marsh's  side, 
Did,  even  as  I,  in  the  end  rejoice, 
Since  the  voice  of  death  must  be  His  true  voice. 


A  Ladder  of  Life 

FROM  age  to  age  in  the  public  place, 
With  the  under  steps  in  view, 
The  stairway  stands,  having  earth  for  base, 
But  the  heavens  it  passes  through. 

O  height  and,  deep, 

And  the  quests,  in  sleep, 

Tet  the  Word  of  the  King  says  well, 

That  the  heart  of  the  King  is  unsearchable. 

Of  the  utmost  steps  there  are  legends  grand, 

And  far  stars  shine  as  they  roll ; 
But,  of  child  or  man  in  the  wonderful  land, 

Is  there  one  who  has  scaled  the  whole  ? 

Tet  the  great  hope  stirs, 

Though  His  thoughts  as  yours 

Are  not,  since  the  first  man  fell ; 

For  the  heart  of  the  King  is  unsearchable. 


436  ARTHUR  EDWARD  WA1TE 

A  pulsing  song  of  the  stairway  strange 

Sing,  lark,  dissolved  in  the  sky  ! 
But  no,  for  it  passes  beyond  the  range 

Of  thy  song  and  thy  soaring  high. 

The  star  is  kin 

To  our  soul  within — 

God  orders  His  World  so  Well  : 

Yet  the  heart  of  the  King  is  unsearchable. 

They  say  that  the  angels  thereby  come  down, 

Thereby  do  the  saints  ascend, 
And  that  God's  light  shining  from  God's  own  Town 

May  be  seen  at  the  stairway's  end  : 

For  good  and  ill 

May  be  mixed  at  will, 

The  false  shew  true  by  a  spell, 

But  the  heart  of  the  King  is  unsearchable. 

Now,  the  stairway  stands  by  the  noisy  mart 

And  the  stairway  stands  by  the  sea  ; 
About  it  pulses  the  world's  great  heart 

And  the  heart  of  yourself  and  me. 

We  may  read,  amiss 

Both  in  that  and  this. 

And  the  truth  we  read  in  a  well ; 

Since  the  heart  of  the  King  is  unsearchable 

For  a  few  steps  here  and  a  few  steps  there 

It  is  fill'd  with  our  voices  loud, 
But  above  these  slumbers  the  silent  air 

And  the  hush  of  a  dreaming  cloud. 


ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE  437 

In  the  strain  and  stress 

Of  that  silentness, 

Our  hearts  for  the  height  may  swell ; 

But  the  heart  of  the  King  is  unsearchable. 

Some  few  of  us,  fill'd  with  a  holy  fire, 

The  Cross  and  the  Christ  have  kiss'd  ; 
We  have  sworn  to  achieve  our  soul's  desire 

By  mass  and  evangelist  : 

Of  step  the  third 

I  can  bring  down  Word, 

And  you  on  the  ffth  may  dwell ; 

Tet  the  heart  of  the  King  is  unsearchable. 

• 

As  each  of  us  stands  at  his  place  assign'd 

And  ponders  the  things  we  love, 
It  is  meet  and  right  we  should  call  to  mind 

That  some  must  have  pass'd  above  : 

Tes,  some  there  are 

Who  have  passed  so  far, 

They  have  never  returned  to  tell ; 

And  the  heart  of  the  King  is  unsearchable. 

Some  glimpse  at  least  of  the  end  we  glean, 

Of  the  spiral  curve  and  plan  ; 
For  stretch  as  it  may  through  the  worlds  unseen, 

They  are  ever  the  worlds  of  man  ; 

And — with  all  spaces — 

His  mind  embraces 

The  way  of  the  stairs  as  Well — 

For  his  heart,  like  the  Kings,  is  unsearchable. 


438  ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE 


Restoration 

I  CAME  into  the  world  for  love  of  Thee, 
I  left  Thee  at  Thy  bidding  ; 
I  put  off  my  white  robes  and  shining  crown 
And  came  into  this  world  for  love  of  Thee. 


I  have  lived  in  the  grey  light  for  love  of  Thee, 

In  mean  and  darken'd  houses  : 
The  scarlet  fruits  of  knowledge  and  of  sin 
Have  stain'd  me  with  their  juice  for  love  of  Thee 

I  could  not  choose  but  sin  for  love  of  Thee, 

From  Thee  so  sadly  parted  ; 
I  could  not  choose  but  put  away  my  sin 
And  purge  and  scourge  those  stains  for  love  of  Thee. 

My  soul  is  sick  with  life  for  love  of  Thee, 

Nothing  can  ease  or  fill  me  : 
Restore  me,  past  the  frozen  baths  of  death, 
My  crown  and  robes,  desired  for  love  of  Thee  : 

And  take  me  to  Thyself  for  love  of  Thee ; 

My  loss  or  gain  counts  little, 
But  Thou  must  need  me  since  I  need  Thee  so, 
Crying  through  day  and  night  for  love  of  Thee  ! 


ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE  439 

How  I  came  to  the  Sea 
i 

A^OICE  in  the  dark  imploring, 
A  sweet  flute  play'd  in  the  light, 
An  organ  pealing  and  pouring 

Through  the  world's  cathedral  height — 
And  again  the  charge  and  the  flight, 
The  clash  and  hurtle  of  fight. 
O  thou  art  grand,  thou  art  lonely, 

In  thy  melody,  in  thy  moan, 

With  the  sense  of  a  world  unknown 
Filling 'the  known  world  only  ! 

Great  voice,  which  invokes  and  urges 

The  strenuous  souls  to  strive, 
Gather  thy  waves,  thy  surges  ; 

Thy  breakers  heap  and  drive, 

Thy  long  tides  marshal  and  lead. 

The  little  ripple  shall  plead 
In  little  whispers  on  golden  sand  ; 
And  further  out  on  the  rocky  strand, 
Where  white  crests  crumble  and  white  spume  scourges, 

Thy  drums  and  tocsins  and  horns  shall  blow. 

Thy  long  reverberant  beats  shall  come  and  go, 
From  where  thy  surf-line  in  sky-line  merges 

To  where,  by  sounding  buffet  and  blow — 
Blare  of  paeans  and  mufHe  of  dirges — 

Capes  which  crumble  and  torn  cliffs  know 

The  strength  and  stress  of  thine  ebb  and  flow — 
Waste  and  know  thee  and  thee  confess. 

We  do  not  know  thee,  we  own,  we  know ; 
But  our  soul's  might  in  thy  might  rejoices, 
Our  hearts  respond  to  thy  wild  vast  voices  ! 
Thought  with  its  fleetness  swift  wings  from  the  course 
of  thee  ; 


440  ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE 

Tongues  in  the  speech  of  thee  ; 

Hope  at  the  source  of  thee  ; 

Fire  from  the  gleams  of  thee,  strength  from  the  force 
of  thee  ; 

Width  through  the  reach  of  thee  :1 
Depth  from  thy  deepness,  unfathom'd  by  plummet, 
And  height  from  thy  night-sky's  impervious  summit — 

Omen  and  sign  ! 

These  have  we  drawn  from  thee,  these  do  we  bring  to  thee ; 
Nature's  great  sacraments  rise  from  and  spring  to  thee. 

All  other  ministries — sun,  when  'tis  shrouded, 

Moon  in  the  morning  light  meagre  and  pallid, 
Stars  overclouded — 
All  are  invalid 

For  spaces  and  seasons ;  but  thou, 
Thy  greatest  ministry  is  always  now. 
O  sacramental  sea,  terrible  sea, 
Thine  are  the  words  of  the  mystery — 
Grand-word  and  Pass-Word  and  Number  thine, 

Grades  and  Degrees  to  the  height  advancing, 

And  the  golden  dawn  and  the  glory  glancing 
Far  and  away  to  the  secret  shrine  ! 

ii 

There  shall  be  no  more  sea,  they  say, 
On  Nature's  great  coronation  day, 

When  the  Bridegroom  comes  to  the  Bride. 
Shall  earth  then  lose  her  sacraments  of  tide — 
Motion,  measures  tremendous,  echoing  far  and  long — 
Glister,  sparkle  and  glow,  ring  of  an  endless  song  ? 
O  words  prophetic,  ye  princes  and  priests  attend  ; 
This  is  the  Quest's  end  promised,  the  marvellous  end 
Of  all  our  voyage  and  venture  since  time  began. 
To  the  Quest  for  ever  the  sea's  voice  calleth  man  ; 


ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE  441 

And  this   in   a   mystery-world,   by  only  the   side-light 

broken — 
That  a  Quest  there  is  and  an  end — is  the  single  secret 

spoken 

All  over  that  vibrant  main  : 
Of  the  Quest  for  ever  it  tells,  of  the  ends  and  dooms  to  gain. 

I  rise  in  the  half-light  early,  I  vest  myself  in  haste  ; 

I  pass  over  highway  and  byway,  the  fielded  land  and  the 

waste  ; 

As  much  as  a  man  may  prosper,  all  eager  I  climb  and  go  down, 
For  this  day  surely  meseems  that  the  Quest  may  receive 

a  crown. 
To  and  fro  in  the  search  I  hurry,  and  some  men  bid  me 

narrate 
What  means  this  fever,  and  why  so  eager,  and  whether 

their  help  I  wait ; 
Not  as  yet  they  know  of  the  Quest,  although  they  are 

questing  early  and  late. 

And  others,  my  brothers,  the  same  great  end  pursuing, 
Stop  me  and  ask,  What  news  ?  Fellow  Craft,  is  there  any 
thing  doing  ? 
Is  there  light  in  the  East  anywhere,  some  sign  set  forth 

in  a  star, 

Or  a  louder  watchword  utter'd  from  over  the  harbour  bar  ? 
And  above  the  light  swift  music  of  all  its  fleeting  joys 
The  world  spreads  daily  through  length  and  breadth,  the 

great  Quest's  rumour  and  noise. 
Who  sought  it  first,  who  longest,  and  who  has  attain'd 

almost  ? 

All  this  in  town  and  in  village  its  heralds  proclaim  and  post ; 
But  the  sun  goes  down  and  the  night  comes  on  for  a  space 

to  quench  endeavour, 
While  star  after  star  through  the  spaces  far  shew  the  track 

of  the  Quest  for  ever  ! 


442  ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE 


But  still,  in  the  hush  and  the  haunting,  I  stand,  even  I, 

by  the  shore, 
And  the  sea  in  the  sunshine  crooning  pervades  me  with 

deep  unrest, 

For  it  speaks  of  the  Quest,  of  the  Quest — 
With  a  torrent  of  tongues  in  a  thousand  tones 
And  a  far-off  murmur  of  viewless  zones, 
Old  and  new,  new  and  old,  of  the  Quest ; 

Amen,  it  speaks  evermore  ! 

The  whole  wide  world  of  voice  and  of  rushing  sound 
You  may  seek  through  vainly, 

But  never  a  voice  is  found 
To  search  the  soul  with  such  deep  unrest, 
Or  to  speak  of  the  Quest 
So  plainly. 

Then  surely  thither  the  Quest's  way  lies 

And  a  man  shall  not  err  therein  ; 
Yet  not  on  the  surface  surely  seen  with  eyes, 
For  thence  the  swallow  has  come  and  thereon  the  sea-mew 

flies; 

And  the  haunting  ships  with  tremulous  sails,  we  learn, 
For  ever  about  it  hover,  pass  to  their  place  and  return ; 
And  over  the  wastes  thereof  the  tempests  ravage  and  burn, 
Or  the  sea-spouts  spin. 

But  not  of  these  is  the  Quest ; 
In  the  deep,  in  the  deep  it  lies — 
Ah,  let  me  plunge  therein  ! 

But  the  caves  of  the  deep  are  silent,  and  the  halls  of  the 

deep  are  still ; 

Not  there  is  the  clarion  bird 
Or  the  wind's  loud  organ  heard  ; 
No  blythe  voice  cries  on  the  hill. 


ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE  443 

A  sail,  a  sail  for  the  seaman,  sailing  East  and  West ; 
And  a  horse  for  the  rover  when  he  goeth  over  the  dappled 

down  and  road  ! 

But  a  man  may  better  remain  in  his  own  abode 
Who  is  vow'd  to  the  wonderful  end  which  crowns  the 

Quest ; 

For  sail  and  compass,  and  coach  and  steed  and  the  rest, 
The  king's  highway,  and  the  beaten  track,  and  the  great 

sea-road — 
Are  these  the  way  of  the  Quest  ? 

Travel,  travel  and  search,  eyes  that  are  eager  glisten 

(To-day  is  perchance  too  late), 
I  stand  on  the  marge  and  listen 
(To-morrow  is  stored  with  fate)  ; 
I  stand  on  the  marge  and  wait. 
I  know  that  the  deep,  with  its  secret,  is  a  sacramental 

hymn. 
Enough  that  it  speaks  to  me  vaguely  with  meanings 

reserved  and  dim, 
Saga  and  rune, of  eld  ; 
Enough  that  its  volume  and  grandeur  hint  the  great  tale 

withheld  ; 
While,  far  through  the  depth  and  the  darkness,  the  echoing 

halls  of  the  soul 
Reply  to  the  roar  and  the  roll, 

Themselves  in  the  mystery-tongue, 
All  the  world  over  sung, 
As  the  sibyl  awaking  from  dream 
In  oracles  hints  at  the  theme 
That  has  never  been  spoken  or  spell'd. 


444  ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE 

Of  Consummation 

WISE,  O  heart,  is  the  heart  which  loves  ;  but  what 
of  the  heart  which  refrains — 
Not  as  if  counting  the  cost,  and  preferring  the  ease  to  the 

pains, 
But  knowing  how  treasures  of  all  are  neither  received  nor 

given, 

The  aching  void  that  is  under  love  and  above  it  the  aching 
heaven  ? 

Wise  are  the  lips  which  have  learn'd  how  long  may  linger 

the  lips'  caress, 
But  wiser  they  who  the  hungering  lips  can  chasten  and 

repress, 
For  that  which  our  fain  mouths  burn  to  kiss  and  loving 

arms  to  embrace 
Has  never  been  given  to  lips  or  arms  in  the  world  of  time 

and  space. 

Wise,  therefore,  and  wise  above  all,  is  he  who  does  not 

swerve  aside, 
But  knows  to  his  greatest  need  on  earth  is  service  of  earth 

denied  ; 
Who,  least  things  asking  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  less  than 

the  least  of  rest, 
Goes  on  demanding  the  perfect  good  and  disdaining  the 

second  best. 

After  much  conquest  and  toil  no  doubt,  but  high  in  his 

starry  tracks, 
Shall  the  greater  ministers  come  to  him  burning  the 

sacred  flax, 
Saying  :    So  passes  the  world  and  so  the  glory  and  light 

expend  ; 
But  the  High  Term,  follow'd  unflinching,  cries :    I  can 

repay  at  the  end. 


ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE  445 


The  Morality  of  the  Lost  Word 

WITH  a  measure  of  light  and  a  measure  of  shade, 
The  world  of  old  by  the  Word  was  made  ; 
By  the  shade  and  light  was  the  Word  conceal'd, 
And  the  Word  in  flesh  to  the  world  reveal'd 
Is  by  outward  sense  and  its  forms  obscured  ; 
The  spirit  within  is  the  long  lost  Word, 
Besought  by  the  world  of  the  soul  in  pain 
Through  a  world  of  words  which  are  void  and  vain. 
O  never  while  shadow  and  light  are  blended 
Shall  the  world's  Word-Quest  or  its  woe  be  ended, 
And  never  the  world  of  its  wounds  made  whole 
Till  the  Word  made  flesh  be  the  Word  made  soul  ! 


ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN 

1861-1899 
The  Clearer  Self 

BEFORE  me  grew  the  human  soul, 
And  after  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
Through  grades  of  effort  and  control 
The  marvellous  work  shall  still  go  on. 

Each  mortal  in  his  little  span 

Hath  only  lived,  if  he  have  shown 
What  greatness  there  can  be  in  man 

Above  the  measured  and  the  known  ; 

How  through  the  ancient  layers  of  night, 

In  gradual  victory  secure, 
Grows  ever  with  increasing  light 

The  Energy  serene  and  pure  : 


446  ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN 

The  Soul  that  from  a  monstrous  past, 
From  age  to  age,  from  hour  to  hour, 

Feels  upward  to  some  height  at  last 
Of  unimagined  grace  and  power. 

Though  yet  the  sacred  fire  be  dull, 
In  folds  of  thwarting  matter  furled, 

Ere  death  be  nigh,  while  life  is  full, 
O  Master  Spirit  of  the  world, 

Grant  me  to  know,  to  seek,  to  find, 
In  some  small  measure  though  it  be, 

Emerging  from  the  waste  and  blind, 
The  clearer  self,  the  grander  me  ! 


Peccavi,  Domine 

O  POWER  to  whom  this  earthly  clime 
Is  but  an  atom  in  the  whole, 
O  Poet-heart  of  Space  and  Time, 

O  Maker  and  immortal  Soul, 
Within  whose  glowing  rings  are  bound, 
Out  of  whose  sleepless  heart  had  birth 
The  cloudy  blue,  the  starry  round, 
And  this  small  miracle  of  earth  : 

Who  liv'st  in  every  living  thing, 

And  all  things  are  thy  script  and  chart, 
Who  rid'st  upon  the  eagle's  wing, 

And  yearnest  in  the  human  heart ; 
O  Riddle  with  a  single  clue, 

Love,  deathless,  protean,  secure, 
The  ever  old,  the  ever  new, 

O  Energy,  serene  and  pure. 


ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN  44? 

Thou,  who -art  also  part  of  me, 

Whose  glory  I  have  sometime  seen, 

0  Vision  of  the  Ought-to-be, 

O  Memory  of  the  Might-have-been, 

1  have  had  glimpses  of  thy  way, 

And  moved  with  winds  and  walked  with  stars, 
But,  weary,  I  have  fallen  astray, 
And,  wounded,  who  shall  count  my  scars  ? 

0  Master,  all  my  strength  is  gone  ; 
Unto  the  very  earth  I  bow  ; 

1  have  no  light  to  lead  me  on  ; 

With  aching  heart  and-  burning  brow, 
I  lie  as  one  that  travaileth 

In  sorrow  more  than  he  can  bear ; 
I  sit  in  darkness  as  of  death, 

And  scatter  dust  upon  my  hair. 

The  God  within  my  soul  hath  slept, 
And  I  have  shamed  the  nobler  rule  ; 

0  Master,  I  have  whined  and  crept ; 
O  Spirit,  I  have  played  the  fool. 

Like  him  of  old  upon  whose  head 
His  follies  hung  in  dark  arrears, 

1  groan  and  travail  in  my  bed, 

And  water  it  with  bitter  tears. 

I  stand  upon  thy  mountain-heads, 

And  gaze  until  mine  eyes  are  dim  ; 
The  golden  morning  glows  and  spreads ; 

The  hoary  vapours  break  and  swim. 
I  see  thy  blossoming  fields,  divine, 

Thy  shining  clouds,  thy  blessed  trees — 
And  then  that  broken  soul  of  mine — 

How  much  less  beautiful  than  these  1 


448  ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN 

O  Spirit,  passionless,  but  kind, 
Is  there  in  all  the  world,  I  cry, 

Another  one  so  base  and  blind, 
Another  one  so  weak  as  I  ? 

0  Power,  unchangeable,  but  just, 
Impute  this, one  good  thing  to  me, 

1  sink  my  spirit  to  the  dust 

In  utter  dumb  humility. 


MARY  ELIZABETH  COLERIDGE 

1861-1907 

'  He  came  unto  His  own,  and  His  own 
received  Him  not* 

AS  Christ  the  Lord  was  passing  by, 
JL\.  He  came,  one  night,  to  a  cottage  door. 

He  came,  a  poor  man,  to  the  poor  ; 
He  had  no  bed  whereon  to  lie. 

He  asked  in  vain  for  a  crust  of  bread, 

Standing  there  in  the  frozen  blast. 

The  door  was  locked  and  bolted  fast. 
'  Only  a  beggar  ! '  the  poor  man  said. 

Christ  the  Lord  went  further  on, 

Until  He  came  to  a  palace  gate. 

There  a  king  was  keeping  his  state, 
In  every  window  the  candles  shone. 

The  king  beheld  Him  out  in  the  cold. 

He  left  his  guests  in  the  banquet-hall. 

He  bade  his  servants  tend  them  all. 
'  I  wait  on  a  Guest  I  know  of  old.' 


MARY  ELIZABETH  COLERIDGE          449 

'  'Tis  only  a  beggar-man  ! '  they  said. 

*  Yes,'  he  said  ;   '  it  is  Christ  the  Lord.' 

He  spoke  to  Him  a  kindly  word, 
He  gave  Him  wine  and  he  gave  Him  bread. 

Now  Christ  is  Lord  of  Heaven  and  Hell, 
And  all  the  words  of  Christ  are  true. 
He  touched  the  cottage,  and  it  grew ; 

He  touched  the  palace,  and  it  fell. 

The  poor  man  is  become  a  king. 

Never  was  man  so  sad  as  he. 

Sorrow  and  Sin  on  the  throne  make  three, 
He  has  no  joy  in  mortal  thing. 

But  the  sun  streams  in  at  the  cottage  door 
That  stands  where  once  the  palace  stood, 
And  the  workman,  toiling  to  earn  his  food, 

Was  never  a  king  before. 

Good  Friday  in  my  Heart 

GOOD  FRIDAY  in  my  heart !    Fear  and  affright ! 
My  thoughts  are  the  Disciples  when  they  fled, 
My  words  the  words  that  priest  and  soldier  said, 
My  deed  the  spear  to  desecrate  the  dead. 
And  day,  Thy  death  therein,  is  changed  to  night. 

Then  Easter  in  my  heart  sends  up  the  sun. 
My  thoughts  are  Mary,  when  she  turned  to  see. 
My  words  are  Peter,  answering,  (  Lov'st  thou  Me  ?  ' 
My  deeds  are  all  Thine  own  drawn  close  to  Thee, 
And  night  and  day,  since  Thou  dost  rise,  are  one. 
MYST.  o 


450         MARY  ELIZABETH  COLERIDGE 

After  St.  Augustine 

SUNSHINE  let  it  be  or  frost, 
Storm  or  calm,  as  Thou  shalt  choose  ; 
Though  Thine  every  gift  were  lost, 
Thee  Thyself  we  could  not  lose. 


BLISS  CARMAN 

b.  1861 

P^eni  Creator 

HvevfJia  Kvpiov  lir'  4/i« 
I 

ERD  of  the  grass  and  hill, 
Lord  of  the  rain. 
White  Overlord  of  will, 
Master  of  pain, 

I  who  am  dust  and  air 
Blown  through  the  halls  of  death, 
Like  a  pale  ghost  of  prayer,' — 
I  am  thy  breath. 

Lord  of  the  blade  and  leaf, 
Lord  of  the  bloom, 
Sheer  Overlord  of  grief, 
Master  of  doom, 

Lonely  as  wind  or  snow, 
Through  the  vague  world  and  dim, 
Vagrant  and  glad  I  go  ; 
I  am  thy  whim. 


BLISS  CARMAN  451 

Lord  of  the  storm  and  lull, 
Lord  of  the  sea, 
I  am  thy  broken  gull, 
Blown  far  alee. 

Lord  of  the  harvest  dew, 
Lord  of  the  dawn, 
Star  of  the  paling  blue 
Darkling  and  gone, 

Lost  on  the  mountain  height 
Where  the  first  winds  are  stirred, 
Out  of  the  wells  of  night 
I  am  thy  word. 

Lord  of  the  haunted  hush, 
Where  raptures  throng, 
I  am  thy  hermit  thrush, 
Ending  no  song. 

Lord  of  the  frost  and  cold, 
Lord  of  the  North, 
When  the  red  sun  grows  old 
And  day  goes  forth, 

I  shall  put  off  this  girth, — 
Go  glad  and  free, 
Earth  to  my  mother  earth, 
Spirit  to  thee. 


ii 

Lord  of  my  heart's  elation, 
Spirit  of  things  unseen, 
Be  thou  my  aspiration 
Consuming  and  serene  I 


452 


BLISS  CARMAN 

Bear  up,  bear  out,  bear  onward 
This  mortal  soul  alone, 
To  selfhood  or  oblivion, 
Incredibly  thine  own, — 

As  the  foamheads  are  loosened 
And  blown  along  the  sea, 
Or  sink  and  merge  forever 
In  that  which  bids  them  be. 

I,  too,  must  climb  in  wonder, 
Uplift  at  thy  command, — 
Be  one  with  my  frail  fellows 
Beneath  the  wind's  strong  hand, 

A  fleet  and  shadowy  column 
Of  dust  or  mountain  rain, 
To  walk  the  earth  a  moment 
And  be  dissolved  again. 

Be  thou  my  exaltation 
Or  fortitude  of  mien, 
Lord  of  the  world's  elation 
Thou  breath  of  things  unseen  ! 


A  Creature  Catechism 


Soul,  what  art  thou  in  the  tribes  of  the  sea 

ERD,  said  a  fly  ing  fish, 
Below  the  foundations  of  storm 
We  feel  the  primal  wish 
Of  the  earth  take  form. 


BLISS  CARMAN  453 

Through  the  dim  green  water-fire 
We  see  the  red  sun  loom, 
And  the  quake  of  a  new  desire 
Takes  hold  on  us  down  in  the  gloom. 

No  more  can  the  filmy  drift 
Nor  draughty  currents  buoy 
Our  whim  to  its  bent,  nor  lift 
Our  heart  to  the  height  of  its  joy. 

When  sheering  down  to  the  Line 
Come  polar  tides  from  the  North, 
Thy  silver  folk  of  the  brine 
Must  glimmer  and  forth. 

Down  in  the  crumbling  mill 
Grinding  eternally, 
We  are  the  type  of  thy  will 
To  the  tribes  of  the  sea. 


Soul,  what  art  thou  in  the  tribes  of  the  air  ? 

Lord,  said  a  butterfly, 
Out  of  a  creeping  thing, 
For  days  in  the  dust  put  by, 
The  spread  of  a  wing 

Emerges  with  pulvil  of  gold 
On  a  tissue  of  green  and  blue, 
And  there  is  thy  purpose  of  old 
Unspoiled  and  fashioned  anew. 


454  BLISS  CARMAN 

Ephemera,  ravellings  of  sky 
And  shreds  of  the  Northern  light, 
We  age  in  a  heart-beat  and  die 
Under  the  eaves  of  night. 

What  if  the  small  breath  quail, 
Or  cease  at  a  touch  of  the  frost  ? 
Not  a  tremor  of  joy  shall  fail, 
Nor  a  pulse  be  lost. 

This  fluttering  life,  never  still, 
Survives  to  oblivion's  despair. 
We  are  the  type  of  thy  will 
To  the  tribes  of  the  air. 


in 

Soul,  what  art  thou  in  the  tribes  of  the  field  ? 

Lord,  said  a  maple  seed, 

Though  well  we  are  wrapped  and  bound, 

We  are  the  first  to  give  heed, 

When  thy  bugles  give  sound. 

We  banner  thy  House  of  the  Hills 
With  green  and  vermilion  and  gold, 
When  the  floor  of  April  thrills 
With  the  myriad  stir  of  the  mould, 

And  her  hosts  for  migration  prepare. 
We  too  have  the  veined  twin-wings, 
Vans  for  the  journey  of  air. 
With  the  urge  of  a  thousand  springs 


BLISS  CARMAN  455 

Pent  for  a  germ  in  our  side, 
We  perish  of  joy,  being  dumb, 
That  our  race  may  be  and  abide 
For  aeons  to  come. 

When  rivulet  answers  to  rill 
In  snow-blue  valleys  unsealed, 
We  are  the  type  of  thy  will 
To  the  tribes  of  the  field. 


IV 

Soul,  what  art  thou  in  the  tribes  of  the  ground  ? 

Lord,  when  the  time  is  ripe, 
Said  a  frog  through  the  quiet  rain, 
We  take  up  the  silver  pipe 
For  the  pageant  again. 

When  the  melting  wind  of  the  South 
Is  over  meadow  and  pond, 
We  draw  the  breath  of  thy  mouth, 
Reviving  the  ancient  bond. 

Then  must  we  fife  and  declare 
The  unquenchable  joy  of  earth, — 
Testify  hearts  still  dare, 
Signalize  beauty's  worth. 

Then  must  we  rouse  and  blow 
On  the  magic  reed  once  more, 
Till  the  glad  earth-children  know 
Not  a  thing  to  deplore. 


456  BLISS  CARMAN 

When  rises  the  marshy  trill 

To  the  soft  spring  night's  profound, 

We  are  the  type  of  thy  will 

To  the  tribes  of  the  ground. 


Soul,  what  art  tbou  in  the  tribes  of  the  earth  ? 

Lord,  said  an  artist  born, 
We  leave  the  city  behind 
For  the  hills  of  open  morn, 
For  fear  of  our  kind. 

Our  brother  they  nailed  to  a  tree 
For  sedition  ;   they  bully  and  curse 
All  those  whom  love  makes  free. 
Yet  the  very  winds  disperse 

Rapture  of  birds  and  brooks, 
Colours  of  sea  and  cloud, — 
Beauty  not  learned  of  books, 
Truth  that  is  never  loud. 

We  model  our  joy  into  clay, 
Or  help  it  with  line  and  hue, 
Or  hark  for  its  breath  in  stray 
Wild  chords  and  new. 

For  to-morrow  can  only  fulfil 
Dreams  which  to-day  have  birth  ; 
We  are  the  type  of  thy  will 
To  the  tribes  of  the  earth. 


BLISS  CARMAN  457 

On  Love 

TO  the  assembled  folk 
At  great  St.  Kavin's  spoke 
Young  Brother  Amiel  on  Christmas  Eve ; 
I  give  you  joy,  my  friends, 
That  as  the  round  year  ends, 
We  meet  once  more  for  gladness  by  God's  leave. 

On  other  festal  days 

For  penitence  or  praise 

Or  prayer  we  meet,  or  fullness  of  thanksgiving  ; 

To-night  we  calendar 

The  rising  of  that  star 

Which  lit  the  old  world  with  new  joy  of  living. 

Ah,  we  disparage  still 

The  Tidings  of  Good  Will, 

Discrediting  Love's  gospel  now  as  then  ! 

And  with  the  verbal  creed 

That  God  is  love  indeed, 

Who  dares  make  Love  his  god  before  all  men  ? 

Shall  we  not,  therefore,  friends, 

Resolve  to  make  amends 

To  that  glad  inspiration  of  the  heart ; 

To  grudge  not,  to  cast  out 

Selfishness,  malice,  doubt, 

Anger  and  fear  ;  and  for  the  better  part, 

To  love  so  much,  so  well, 
The  spirit  cannot  tell 

The  range  and  sweep  of  her  own  boundary  ! 
There  is  no  period 
Between  the  soul  and  God  ; 
Love  is  the  tide,  God  the  eternal  sea.  ... 
Q3 


458  BLISS  CARMAN 

To-day  we  walk  by  love  ; 

To  strive  is  not  enough, 

Save  against  greed  and  ignorance  and  might. 

We  apprehend  peace  comes 

Not  with  the  roll  of  drums, 

But  in  the  still  processions  of  the  night. 

. 

And  we  perceive,  not  awe 
But  love  is  the  great  law 

That  binds  the  world  together  safe  and  whole. 
The  splendid  planets  run 
Their  courses  in  the  sun  ; 
Love  is  the  gravitation  of  the  soul. 

In  the  profound  unknown, 

Illumined,  fair,  and  lone, 

Each  star  is  set  to  shimmer  in  its  place. 

In  the  profound  divine 

Each  soul  is  set  to  shine, 

And  its  unique  appointed  orbit  trace. 

There  is  no  near  nor  far, 

Where  glorious  Algebar 

Swings  round  his  mighty  circuit  through  the  night, 

Yet  where  without-  a  sound 

The  winged  seed  comes  to  ground, 

And  the  red  leaf  seems  hardly  to  alight. 

One  force,  one  lore,  one  need 

For  satellite  and  seed, 

In  the  serene  benignity  for  all. 

Letting  her  time-glass  run 

With  star-dust,  sun  by  sun, 

In  Nature's  thought  there  is  no  great  nor  small. 


BLISS  CARMAN  459 

There  is  no  far  nor  near 

Within  the  spirit's  sphere. 

The  summer  sunset's  scarlet-yellow  wings 

Are  tinged  with  the  same  dye 

That  paints  the  tulip's  ply. 

And  what  is  colour  but  the  soul  of  things  ? 

(The  earth  was  without  form  ; 

God  moulded  it  with  storm, 

Ice,  flood,  and  tempest,  gleaming  tint  and  hue  ; 

Lest  it  should  come  to  ill 

For  lack  of  spirit  still, 

He  gave  it  colour, — let  the  love  shine  through.)  .  .  , 

Of  old,  men  said,  '  Sin  not ; 

By  every  line  and  jot 

Ye  shall  abide  ;   man's  heart  is  false  and  vile.' 

Christ  said,  '  By  love  alone 

In  man's  heart  is  God  known  ; 

Obey  the  word  no  falsehood  can  defile.'  .  .  . 

And  since  that  day  we  prove 

Only  how  great  is  love, 

Nor  to  this  hour  its  greatness  half  believe. 

For  to  what  other  power 

Will  life  give  equal  dower, 

Or  chaos  grant  one  moment  of  reprieve  ! 

Look  down  the  ages'  line, 

Where  slowly  the  divine 

Evinces  energy,  puts  forth  control ; 

See  mighty  love  alone 

Transmuting  stock  and  stone, 

Infusing  being,  helping  sense  and  soul. 


460  BLISS  CARMAN 

And  what  is  energy, 

In-working,  which  bids  be 

The  starry  pageant  and  the  life  of  earth  ? 

What  is  the  genesis 

Of  every  joy  and  bliss, 

Each  action  dared,  each  beauty  brought  to  birth  ? 

What  hangs  the  sun  on  high  ? 

What  swells  the  growing  rye  ? 

What  bids  the  loons  cry  on  the  Northern  lake  ? 

What  stirs  in  swamp  and  swale, 

When  April  winds  prevail, 

And  all  the  dwellers  of  the  ground  awake  ?  .  .  . 

What  lurks  in  the  deep  gaze 

Of  the  old  wolf  ?    Amaze, 

Hope,  recognition,  gladness,  anger,  fear. 

But  deeper  than  all  these 

Love  muses,  yearns,  and  sees, 

And  is  the  self  that  does  not  change  nor  veer. 

Not  love  of  self  alone, 

Struggle  for  lair  and  bone, 

But  self-denying  love  of  mate  and  young, 

Love  that  is  kind  and  wise, 

Knows  trust  and  sacrifice, 

And  croons  the  old  dark  universal  tongue.  .  .  . 

And  who  has  understood 

Our  brothers  of  the  wood, 

Save  he  who  puts  off  guile  and  every  guise 

Of  violence, — made  truce 

With  panther,  bear,  and  moose, 

As  beings  like  ourselves  whom  love  makes  wise  ? 


BLISS  CARMAN  461 

For  they,  too,  do  love's  will, 

Our  lesser  clansmen  still ; 

The  House  of  Many  Mansions  holds  us  all ; 

Courageous,  glad  and  hale, 

They  go  forth  on  the  trail, 

Hearing  the  message,  hearkening  to  the  call.  .  .  . 

Open  the  door  to-night 

Within  your  heart,  and  light 

The  lantern  of  love  there  to  shine  afar. 

On  a  tumultuous  sea 

Some  straining  craft,  maybe, 

With  bearings  lost,  shall  sight  love's  silver  star. 


ALICE  MEYNELL 

To  a  Daisy 

SLIGHT  as  thou  art,  thou  art  enough  to  hide, 
Like  all  created  things,  secrets  from  me, 
And  stand  a  barrier  to  eternity. 
And  I,  how  can  I  praise  thee  well  and  wide 

From  where  I  dwell — upon  the  hither  side  ? 
Thou  little  veil  for  so  great  mystery, 
When  shall  I  penetrate  all  things  and  thee, 

And  then  look  back  ?    For  this  I  must  abide, 

Till  thou  shalt  grow  and  fold  and  be  unfurled 
Literally  between  me  and  the  world. 

Then  shall  I  drink  from  in  beneath  a  spring, 

And  from  a  poet's  side  shall  read  his  book. 
O  daisy  mine,  what  will  it  be  to  look 

From  God's  side  even  of  such  a  simple  thing  ? 


46z 


ALICE  MEYNELL 


et  Feritas^  et 

'  'V/'OU  never  attained  to  Him.'    '  If  to  attain 

1     Be  to  abide,  then  that  may  be.' 
Endless  the  way,  followed  with  how  much  pain  ! ' 
4  The  way  was  He.' 


The  Unknown  God 

ONE  of  the  crowd  went  up, 
And  knelt  before  the  Paten  and  the  Cup, 
Received  the  Lord,  returned  in  peace,  and  prayed 
Close  to  my  side  ;  then  in  my  heart  I  said  : 

4  O  Christ,  in  this  man's  life— 

This  stranger  who  is  Thine — in  all  his  strife, 

All  his  felicity,  his  good  and  ill, 

In  the  assaulted  stronghold  of  his  will, 

*  I  do  confess  Thee  here, 

Alive  within  this  life  ;   I  know  Thee  near 
Within  this  lonely  conscience,  closed  away 
Within  this  brother's  solitary  day. 

4  Christ  in  his  unknown  heart, 
His  intellect  unknown — this  love,  this  art, 
This  battle  and  this  peace,  this  destiny 
That  I  shall  never  know,  look  upon  me  ! 

*  Christ  in  his  numbered  breath, 

Christ  in  his  beating  heart  and  in  his  death, 
Christ  in  his  mystery  !    From  that  secret  place 
And  from  that  separate  dwelling,  give  me  grace.' 


ALICE  MEYNELL  463 

In   Portugal,  1912 

A^D  will  they  cast  the  altars  down, 
Scatter  the  chalice,  crush  the  bread  ? 
In  field,  in  village,  and  in  town 
He  hides  an  unregarded  head  ; 

Waits  in  the  corn-lands  far  and  near, 

Bright  in  His  sun,  dark  in  His  frost, 
Sweet  in  the  vine,  ripe  in  the  ear — 

Lonely  unconsecrated  Host. 

In  ambush  at  the  merry  board 

The  Victim  lurks  unsacrificed  ; 
The  mill  conceals  the  harvest's  Lord, 

The  wine-press  holds  the  unbidden  Christ. 


Christ  in  the  Universe 

WITH  this  ambiguous  earth 
His  dealings  have  been  told  us.    These  abide 
The  signal  to  a  maid,  the  human  birth, 
The  lesson,  and  the  young  Man  crucified. 

But  not  a  star  of  all 

The  innumerable  host  of  stars  has  heard 
How  He  administered  this  terrestrial  ball. 
Our  race  have  kept  their  Lord's  entrusted  Word. 

Of  His  earth-visiting  feet 
None  knows  the  secret,  cherished,  perilous, 
The  terrible,  shamefast,  frightened,  whispered,  sweet, 
Heart-shattering  secret  of  His  way  with  us. 


464  ALICE  MEYNELL 

No  planet  knows  that  this 
Our  wayside  planet,  carrying  land  and  wave, 
Love  and  life  multiplied,  and  pain  and  bliss, 
Bears,  as  chief  treasure,  one  forsaken  grave. 

Nor,  in  our  little  day, 

May  His  devices  with  the  heavens  be  guessed, 
His  pilgrimage  to  thread  the  Milky  Way 
Or  His  bestowals  there  be  manifest. 


But  in  the  eternities, 

Doubtless  we  shall  compare  together,  hear 
A  million  alien  Gospels,  in  what  guise 
He  trod  the  Pleiades,  the  Lyre,  the  Bear. 

O,  be  prepared,  my  soul ! 
To  read  the  inconceivable,  to  scan 
The  myriad  forms  of  God  those  stars  unroll 
When,  in  our  turn,  we  show  to  them  a  Man. 


KATHERINE  TYNAN  HINKSON 
The  Beloved 

BLOW  gently  over  my  garden, 
Wind  of  the  Southern  sea, 
In  the  hour  that  my  Love  cometh 

And  calleth  me  ! 
My  Love  shall  entreat  me  sweetly, 

With  voice  like  the  wood-pigeon  ; 
*  I  am  here  at  the  gate  of  thy  garden, 
Here  in  the  dawn.' 


KATHERINE  TYNAN  HINKSON         465 

Then  I  shall  rise  up  swiftly 

All  in  the  rose  and  grey, 
And  open  the  gate  to  my  Lover 

At  dawning  of  day. 
He  hath  crowns  of  pain  on  His  forehead, 

And  wounds  in  His  hands  and  feet ; 
But  here  mid  the  dews  of  my  garden 

His  rest  shall  be  sweet. 

Then  blow  not  out  of  your  forests, 

Wind  of  the  icy  North  ; 
But  Wind  of  the  South  that  is  healing 

Rise  and  come  forth! 
And  shed  your  musk  and  your  honey, 

And  spill  your  odours  of  spice, 
For  one  who  forsook  for  my  garden 

His  Paradise  ! 


The   Flying  Wheel 

WHEN  I  was  young  the  days  were  long, 
Oh,  long  the  days  when  I  was  young  : 
So  long  from  morn  to  evenfall 
As  they  would  never  end  at  all. 

Now  I  grow  old  Time  flies,  alas  ! 
I  watch  the  years  and  seasons  pass. 
Time  turns  him  with  his  fingers  thin 
A  wheel  that  whirls  while  it  doth  spin. 

There  is  no  time  to  take  one's  ease, 
For  to  sit  still  and  be  at  peace  : 
Oh,  whirling  wheel  of  Time,  be  still, 
Let  me  be  quiet  if  you  will ! 


466          KATHERINE  TYNAN  HINKSON 

Yet  still  it  turns  so  giddily, 
So  fast  the  years  and  seasons  fly, 
Dazed  with  the  noise  and  speed  I  run 
And  stay  me  on  the  Changeless  One. 

I  stay  myself  on  Him  who  stays 
Ever  the  same  through  nights  and  days : 
The  One  Unchangeable  for  aye, 
That  was  and  will  be  :  the  one  Stay, 

O'er  whom  Eternity  will  pass 

But  as  an  image  in  a  glass  ; 

To  whom  a  million  years  are  nought, — 

I  stay  myself  on  a  great  Thought. 

I  stay  myself  on  the  great  Quiet 
After  the  noises  and  the  riot ; 
As  in  a  garnished  chamber  sit 
Far  from  the  tumult  of  the  street. 

Oh,  wheel  of  Time,  turn  round  apace  ! 
But  I  have  found  a  resting-place. 
You  will  not  trouble  me  again 
In  the  great  peace  where  I  attain. 


SIR  HENRY  NEWBOLT 

b.  1862 

The  Final  Mystery 

This  myth,  of  Egyptian  origin,  formed  part  of  the  instruction 
given  to  those  initiated  in  the  Orphic  mysteries,  and  written 
versions  of  it  were  buried  with  the  dead. 

HEAR  now,  O  Soul,  the  last  command  of  ail- 
When  thou  hast  left  thine  every  mortal  mark, 
And  by  the  road  that  lies  beyond  recall 
Won  through  the  desert  of  the  Burning  Dark, 


SIR  HENRY  NEWBOLT  467 

Thou  shalt  behold  within  a  garden  bright 
A  well,  beside  a  cypress  ivory-white. 

Still  is  that  well,  and  in  its  waters  cool 

White,  white  and  windless,  sleeps  that  cypress  tree  : 

Who  drinks  but  once  from  out  her  shadowy  pool 

Shall  thirst  no  more  to  all  eternity. 

Forgetting  all,  by  all  forgotten  clean, 

His  soul  shall  be  with  that  which  hath  not  been. 

But  thou,  though  thou  be  trembling  with  thy  dread, 
And  parched  with  thy  desire  more  fierce  than  flame, 
Think  on  the  stream  wherefrom  thy  life  was  fed, 
And  that  diviner  fountain  whence  it  came. 
Turn  thee  and  cry — behold,  it  is  not  far — 
Unto  the  hills  where  living  waters  are. 

'  Lord,  though  I  lived  on  earth,  the  child  of  earth, 
Yet  was  I  fathered  by  the  starry  sky  : 
Thou  knowest  I  came  not  of  the  shadows'  birth, 
Let  me  not  die  the  death  that  shadows  die. 
Give  me  to  drink  of  the  sweet  spring  that  leaps 
From  Memory's  fount,  wherein  no  cypress  sleeps.' 

Then  shalt  thou  drink,  O  Soul,  and  therewith  slake 

The  immortal  longing  of  thy  mortal  thirst ; 

So  of  thy  Father's  life  shalt  thou  partake, 

And  be  for  ever  that  thou  wert  at  first. 

Lost  in  remembered  loves,  yet  thou  more  thou 

With  them  shalt  reign  in  never-ending  Now. 


468 


ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON 

b.  1862 
Prayer 

MY  sorrow  had  pierced  me  through  ;  it  throbbed  in 
my  heart  like  a  thorn  ; 
This  way  and  that  I  stared,  as  a  bird  with  a  broken 

limb 
Hearing  the  hound's  strong  feet  thrust  imminent  through 

the  corn, 
So  to  my  God  I  turned  :   and  I  had  forgotten  Him. 

Into   the   night    I   breathed   a   prayer    like    a    soaring 

fire;- 
So    to    the    windswept    cliff    the    resonant    rocket 

streams, — 
And  it  struck  its  mark,  I  know ;    for  I  felt  my  flying 

desire 

Strain,  like  a  rope  drawn  home,  and  catch  in  the  land 
of  dreams. 


What  was  the  answer  ?     This — the  horrible  depth  of 

night, 
And  deeper,  as  ever  I  peer,  the  huge  cliff's  mountainous 

shade, 
While  the  frail  boat  cracks  and  grinds,  and  never  a  star 

in  sight, 

And  the  seething  waves  smite  fiercer ; — and  yet  I  am 
not  afraid. 


469 

GEORGE  SANTAYANA 

b.  1863 
'  0  World,  thou  choose st  not y 

O  WORLD,  thou  choosest  not  the  better  part ! 
It  is  not  wisdom  to  be  only  wise, 
And  on  the  inward  vision  close  the  eyes, 
But  it  is  wisdom  to  believe  the  heart. 
Columbus  found  a  world,  and  had  no  chart, 
Save  one  that  faith  deciphered  in  the  skies ; 
To  trust  the  soul's  invincible  surmise 
Was  all  his  science  and  his  only  art. 
Our  knowledge  is  a  torch  of  smoky  pine 
That  lights  the  pathway  but  one  step  ahead 
Across  a  void  of  mystery  and  dread. 
Bid,  then,  the  tender  light  of  faith  to  shine 
By  which  alone  the  mortal  heart  is  led 
Unto  the  thinking  of  the  thought  divine. 

'  0  Martyred  Spirit  * 

O  MARTYRED  Spirit  of  this  helpless  Whole, 
Who  dost  by  pain  for  tyranny  atone, 
And  in  the  star,  the  atom,  and  the  stone, 
Purgest  the  primal  guilt,  and  in  the  soul ; 
Rich  but  in  grief,  thou  dost  thy  wealth  unroll, 
And  givest  of  thy  substance  to  thine  own, 
Mingling  the  love,  the  laughter,  and  the  groan 
In  the  large  hollow  of  the  heaven's  bowl. 
Fill  full  my  cup  ;   the  dregs  and  honeyed  brim 
I  take  from  thy  just  hand,  more  worthy  love 
For  sweetening  not  the  draught  for  me  or  him. 
What  in  myself  I  am,  that  let  me  prove  ; 
Relent  not  for  my  feeble  prayer,  nor  dim 
The  burning  of  thine  altar  for  my  hymn. 


470 


HERBERT  TRENCH 
Lindisfame 

seer,  the  net-mender, 
e  day  that  he  died 
Looked  out  to  the  seaward 
At  ebb  of  the  tide  ; 
Gulls  drove  like  the  snow 
Over  bight,  over  barn, 
As  he  sang  to  the  ebb 
On  the  rock  Lindisfarne  : 
'  Hail,  thou  blue  ebbing  ! 
The  breakers  are  gone 
From  the  stormy  coast-islet 
Bethundered  and  lone  ! 
Hail,  thou  wide  shrinking 
Of  foam  and  of  bubble  — 
The  reefs  are  laid  bare 
And  far  off  is  the  trouble  ! 
For  through  this  retreating 
As  soft  as  a  smile, 
The  isle  of  the  flood 
Is  no  longer  an  isle.  .  .  . 

By  the  silvery  isthmus 

Of  sands  that  uncover, 

Now  feet  as  of  angels 

Come  delicate  over  — 

The  fluttering  children 

Flee  happily  over  ! 

To  the  beach  of  the  mainland 

Return  is  now  clear, 

The  old  travel  thither 

Dry-shod,  without  fear.  .  .  . 


b.  1865 


HERBERT  TRENCH  471 

And  now,  at  the  wane, 
When  foundations  expand, 
Doth  the  isle  of  the  soul, 
Lindisfarne,  understand 
She  stretcheth  to  vastness 
Made  one  with  the  land  ! ' 


I  Seek  Thee  in  the  Heart  Alone 

KUNTAIN  of  Fire  whom  all  divide, 
re  haste  asunder  like  the  spray 
But  waneless  doth  Thy  flame  abide 
Whom  every  torch  can  take  away  ! 

L 

I  seek  Thee  in  the  heart  alone, 
I  shall  not  find  in  hill  or  plain  ; 
Our  rushing  star  must  keep  its  moan, 
Our  nightly  soul  its  homeward  pain. 

Song  out  of  thought,  Light  out  of  power, 
Even  the  consumings  of  this  breast 
Advance  the  clearness  of  that  hour 
When  all  shall  poise,  and  be  at  rest. 

It  cracks  at  last — the  glowing  sheath, 
The  illusion,  Personality ; 
Absorbed  and  interwound  with  death 
The  myriads  are  dissolved  in  Thee. 


472 

WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

b.  1865 
The  Rose  of  Battle 

ROSE  of  all  Roses,  Rose  of  all  the  World  ! 
The  tall  thought-woven  sails,  that  flap  unfurled 
Above  the  tide  of  hours,  trouble  the  air, 
And  God's  bell  buoyed  to  be  the  water's  care  ; 
While  hushed  from  fear,  or  loud  with  hope,  a  band 
With  blown,  spray-dabbled  hair  gather  at  hand. 
Turn  if  you  may  from  battles  never  done, 
I  call,  as  they  go  by  me  one  by  one, 
Danger  no  refuge  holds,  and  war  no  peace. 
For  him  who  hears  love  sing  and  never  cease, 
Beside  her  clean-swept  hearth,  her  quiet  shade  : 
But  gather  all  for  whom  no  love  hath  made 
A  woven  silence,  or  but  came  to  cast 
A  song  into  the  air,  and  singing  past 
To  smile  on  the  pale  dawn  ;  and  gather  you 
Who  have  sought  more  than  is  in  rain  or  dew 
Or  in  the  sun  and  moon,  or  on  the  earth, 
Or  sighs  amid  the  wandering  starry  mirth, 
Or  comes  in  laughter  from  the  sea's  sad  lips  ; 
And  wage  God's  battles  in  the  long  grey  ships. 
The  sad,  the  lonely,  the  insatiable, 
To  these  Old  Night  shall  all  her  mystery  tell  ; 
God's  bell  has  claimed  them  by  the  little  cry 
Of  their  sad  hearts,  that  may  not  live  nor  die. 

Rose  of  all  Roses,  Rose  of  all  the  World  ! 
You,  too,  have  come  where  the  dim  tides  are  hurled 
Upon  the  wharves  of  sorrow,  and  heard  ring 
The  bell  that  calls  us  on  ;  the  sweet  far  thing. 


WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS  473 

Beauty  grown  sad  with  its  eternity 

Made  you  of  us,  and  of  the  dim  grey  sea. 

Our  long  ships  loose  thought-woven  sails  and  wait, 

For  God  has  bid  them  share  an  equal  fate  ; 

And  when  at  last  defeated  in  His  wars, 

They  have  gone  down  under  the  same  white  stars, 

We  shall  no  longer  hear  the  little  cry 

Of  our  sad  hearts,  that  may  not  live  nor  die. 


To  the  Secret  Rose 

FAR  off,  most  secret,  and  inviolate  Rose, 
Enfold  me  in  my  hour  of  hours  ;  where  those 
Who  sought  thee  at  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
Or  in  the  wine-vat,  dwell  beyond  the  stir 
And  tumult  of  defeated  dreams ;  and  deep 
Among  pale  eyelids  heavy  with  the  sleep 
Men  have  named  beauty.    Your  great  leaves  enfold 
The  ancient  beards,  the  helms  of  ruby  and  gold 
Of  the  crowned  Magi ;   and  the  king  whose  eyes 
Saw  the  Pierced  Hands  and  Rood  of  Elder  rise 
In  druid  vapour  and  make  the  torches  dim  ; 
Till  vain  frenzy  awoke  and  he  died  ;  and  him 
Who  met  Fand  walking  among  naming  dew, 
By  a  grey  shore  where  the  wind  never  blew, 
And  lost  the  world  and  Emir  for  a  kiss  ; 
And  him  who  drove  the  gods  out  of  their  liss 
And  till  a  hundred  morns  had  flowered  red 
Feasted,  and  wept  the  barrows  of  his  dead  ; 
And  the  proud  dreaming  king  who  flung  the  crown 
And  sorrow  away,  and  calling  bard  and  clown 
Dwelt  among  wine-stained  wanderers  in  deep  woods; 
And  him  who  sold  tillage  and  house  and  goods, 


474  WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

And  sought  through  lands  and  islands  numberless  years 

Until  he  found  with  laughter  and  with  tears 

A  woman  of  so  shining  loveliness, 

That  men  threshed  corn  at  midnight  by  a  tress, 

A  little  stolen  tress.    I  too  await 

The  hour  of  thy  great  wind  of  love  and  hate. 

When  shall  the  stars  be  blown  about  the  sky, 

Like  the  sparks  blown  out  of  a  smithy,  and  die  ? 

Surely  thine  hour  has  come,  thy  great  wind  blows, 

Far  off,  most  secret,  and  inviolate  Rose  ? 


ARTHUR  SYMONS 

b.  1865 
The  Ecstasy 

\  V  THAT  is  this  reverence  in  extreme  delight 
W  That  waits  upon  my  kisses  as  they  storm, 
Vehemently,  this  height 
Of  steep  and  inaccessible  delight ; 
And  seems  with  newer  ecstasy  to  warm 
Their  slackening  ardour,  and  invite, 
From  nearer  heaven,  the  swarm 
Of  hiving  stars  with  mortal  sweetness  down  ? 
Never  before 

Have  I  endured  an  exaltation 
So  exquisite  in  anguish,  and  so  sore 
In  promise  and  possession  of  full  peace. 
Cease  not,  O  nevermore 
Cease, 

To  lift  my  joy,  as  upon  windy  wings, 
Into  that  infinite  ascension,  where, 
In  baths  of  glittering  air, 
It  finds  a  heaven  and  like  an  angel  sings. 


ARTHUR  SYMONS  475 

Heaven  waits  above, 

There  where  the  clouds  and  fastnesses  of  love 

Lift  earth  into  the  skies ; 

And  I  have  seen  the  glimmer  of  the  gates, 

And  twice  or  thrice 

Climbed  half  the  difficult  way, 

Only  to  say 

Heaven  waits, 

Only  to  fall  away  from  paradise. 

But  now,  O  what  is  this 

Mysterious  and  uncapturable  bliss 

That  I  have  known,  yet  seems  to  be 

Simple  as  breath,  and  easy  as  a  smile, 

And  older  than  the  earth  ? 

Now  but  a  little  while 

This  ultimate  ecstasy 

Has  parted  from  its  birth, 

Now  but  a  little  while  been  wholly  mine, 

Yet  am  I  utterly  possessed 

By  the  delicious  tyrant  and  divine 

Child,  this  importunate  guest. 


Indian  Meditation 

WHERE  shall  this  self  at  last  find  happiness  ? 
O  Soul,  only  in  nothingness. 
Does  not  the  Earth  suffice  to  its  own  needs  ? 
And  what  am  I  but  one  of  the  Earth's  weeds  ? 
All  things  have  been  and  all  things  shall  go  on 
Before  me  and  when  I  am  gone  ; 
This  self  that  cries  out  for  eternity 
Is  what  shall  pass  in  me  : 
The  tree  remains,  the  leaf  falls  from  the  tree. 


476  ARTHUR  SYMONS 

I  would  be  as  the  leaf,  I  would  be  lost 

In  the  identity  and  death  of  frost, 

Rather  than  draw  the  sap  of  the  tree's  strength 

And  for  the  tree's  sake  be  cast  off  at  length. 

To  be  is  homage  unto  being  ;   cease 

To  be,  and  be  at  peace, 

If  it  be  peace  for  self  to  have  forgot 

Even  that  it  is  not. 


The  Turning  Dervish 

STARS  in  the  heavens  turn, 
I  worship  like  a  star, 
And  in  its  footsteps  learn 
Where  peace  and  wisdom  are. 

Man  crawls  as  a  worm  crawls ; 
Till  dust  with  dust  he  lies, 
A  crooked  line  he  scrawls 
Between  the  earth  and  skies. 

Yet  God,  having  ordained 
The  course  of  star  and  sun, 
No  creature  hath  constrained 
A  meaner  course  to  run. 

I,  by  his  lesson  taught, 
Imaging  his  design, 
Have  diligently  wrought 
Motion  to  be  divine. 

I  turn  until  my  sense, 
Dizzied  with  waves  of  air, 
Spins  to  a  point  intense, 
And  spires  and  centres  there. 


ARTHUR  SYMONS  477 

There,  motionless  in  speed, 
I  drink  that  flaming  peace, 
Which  in  the  heavens  doth  feed 
The  stars  with  bright  increase. 

Some  spirit  in  me  doth  move 
Through  ways  of  light  untrod, 
Till,  with  excessive  love, 
I  drown,  and  am  in  God. 


MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN 

1865-1914 
Sibylline 

THERE  is  a  glory  in  the  apple  boughs 
Of  silver  moonlight ;  like  a  torch  of  myrrh, 
Burning  upon  an  altar  of  sweet  vows, 

Dropped  from  the  hand  of  some  wan  worshipper  : 
And  there  is  life  among  the  apple  blooms 

Of  whisp'ring  winds  ;  as  if  a  god  addressed 
The  flamen  from  the  sanctuary  glooms 

With  secrets  of  the  bourne  that  hope  hath  guessed, 
Saying  :   '  Behold  !   a  darkness  which  illumes, 
A  waking  which  is  rest.' 

There  is  a  blackness  in  the  apple  trees 

Of  tempest ;  like  the  ashes  of  an  urn 
Hurt  hands  have  gathered  upon  blistered  knees, 

With  salt  of  tears,  out  of  the  flames  that  burn  : 
And  there  is  death  among  the  blooms,  that  fill 

The  night  with  breathless  scent, — as  when,  above 
The  priest,  the  vision  of  his  faith  doth  will 

Forth  from  his  soul  the  beautiful  form  thereof, — 
Saying  :   '  Behold  !   a  silence  never  still ; 
The  other  form  of  love.' 


478  MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN 

The  Watcher  on  the  Tower 

i 
The  Voice  of  a  Man 

WHAT  of  the  Night,  O  Watcher  ? 
The  Voice  of  a  Woman 

Yea,  what  of  it  ? 
The  Watcher 
A  star  has  risen  ;  and  a  wind  blows  strong. 

Voice  of  the  Man 
The  Night  is  dark. 

The  Watcher 

But  God  is  there  above  it. 
Voice  of  the  Woman 
The  Night  is  dark  ;  the  Night  is  dark  and  long. 

ii 

Voice  of  the  Man 
What  of  the  Night,  O  Watcher  ? 

Voice  of  the  Woman 

Night  of  sorrow ! 
The  Watcher 
Out  of  the  East  there  comes  a  sound,  like  song. 

Voice  of  the  Man 
The  Night  is  dark. 

The  Watcher 

Have  courage !  There  's  To-morrow ! 
Voice  of  the  Woman 
The  Night  is  dark  ;  the  Night  is  dark  and  long. 


MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN  479 

in 

Voice  of  the  Man 
What  of  the  Night,  O  Watcher  ? 

Voice  of  the  Woman 

Is  it  other  ? 

The  Watcher 
I  see  a  gleam  ;  a  thorn  of  light ;  a  thong. 

Voice  of  the  Man 
The  Night  is  dark. 

The  Watcher 
The  Morning  comes,  my  Brother. 

Voice  of  the  Woman 
The  Night  is  dark  ;  the  Night  is  dark  and  long. 

IV 

Voice  of  the  Man 
What  now,  what  now,  O  Watcher  ? 

The  Watcher 

Red  as  slaughter 
The  Darkness  dies.    The  Light  comes  swift  and  strong. 

Voice  of  the  Man 
The  Night  was  long. — What  sayest  thou,  my  Daughter  ? 

Voice  of  the  Woman 
The  Night  was  dark  ;  the  Night  was  dark  and  long. 


480  MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN 


Attainment 

ON  the  Heights  of  Great  Endeavour,- 
Where  Attainment  looms  forever, — 
Toiling  upward,  ceasing  never, 
Climb  the  fateful  Centuries  : 
Up  the  difficult,  dark  places, 
Joy  and  anguish  in  their  faces, 
On  they  strive,  the  living  races, 
And  the  dead,  that  no  one  sees. 

Shape  by  shape,  with  brow  uplifted, 
One  by  one,  where  night  is  rifted, 
Pass  the  victors,  many  gifted, 
Where  the  heaven  opens  wide  : 
While  below  them,  fallen  or  seated, 
Mummy-like,  or  shadow-sheeted, 
Stretch  the  lines  of  the  defeated, — 
Scattered  on  the  mountainside. 

And  each  victor,  passing  wanly, 
Gazes  on  that  Presence  lonely, 
With  unmoving  eyes  where  only 
Grow  the  dreams  for  which  men  die  : 
Grow  the  dreams,  the  far,  ethereal, 
That  on  earth  assume  material 
Attributes,  and,  vast,  imperial, 
Rear  their  battlements  on  high. 

Kingdoms,  marble-templed,  towered, 
Where  the  Arts,  the  many-dowered, — 
That  for  centuries  have  flowered, 
Trampled  under  War's  wild  heel, — 


MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN  481 

Lift  immortal  heads  and  golden, 
Blossoms  of  the  times  called  olden, 
Soul-alluring,  earth-withholden, 
Universal  in  appeal. 

As  they  enter, — high  and  lowly, — 
On  the  hush  these  words  fall  slowly  : — 
'  Ye  who  kept  your  purpose  holy, 
Never  dreamed  your  cause  was  vain, 
Look  ! — Behold,  through  time  abating, 
How  the  long,  sad  days  of  waiting, 
Striving,  starving,  hoping,  hating, 
Helped  your  spirit  to  attain. 

*  For  to  all  who  dream,  aspire, 

Marry  effort  to  desire, 

On  the  cosmic  heights,  in  fire 

Beaconing,  my  form  appears : — 

I  am  marvel,  I  am  morning  ! 

Beauty  in  man's  heart  and  warning  ! — 

On  my  face  none  looks  with  scorning, 

And  no  soul  attains  who  fears.' 


WALTER  LESLIE  WILMSHURST 

b.  1866 

Anima  Naturae 

"*  WIRL  of  the  river  aflow  to  the  sea, 
3 Aspen  a-quiver  all  tremulously, 
Skylark  that  shivereth  song  o'er  the  lea, 

Shaft  of  the  sun  ; 

Snowflakes  that  sprinkle  the  wind-bitten  wold, 
Fireflies  that  twinkle  with  shimmer  of  gold, 
Wavelets  that  wrinkle  the  sands  where  ye  rolled, 

Rivulet's  ripple  and  run  ; 
MYST.  R 


482         WALTER  LESLIE  WILMSHURST 

Lone  mountain-meres  that  are  silently  dreaming 

Of  far-flashing  spheres  that  enmirrored  are  beaming, 

Clouds'  crystal  tears  when  the  rainbow  is  gleaming, 

I,  also  a  son 

Of  the  Mother,  inherit  the  soul  of  her  infinite  throng, 
See  it  and  hear  it  my  paths  all  about  and  among, 
Throb  with  your  spirit  and  sing  with  the  manifold  song 

Of  the  infinite,  manifold  One. 


Nox  Nivosa 

O  NOWFLAKES  downfloating  from  the  void 

O  Upon  my  face, 

Spilth  of  the  silent  alchemy  employed 

In  deeps  of  space 

Where  viewless  everlasting  fingers  ply 
The  power  whose  secret  is  the  mystery 

That  doth  my  world  encase  ; 

Power  that  with  equal  ease  outshakes 

Yon  architrave 
Of  massy  stars  in  heaven  and  these  frail  flakes 

Earth's  floor  that  pave  ; 

Swings  the  flamed  orbs  with  infinite  time  for  dower 
And  strews  these  velvet  jewels  not  an  hour 

Of  sunshine  that  will  brave  ; 

Yet  of  whose  clustered  crystals  none 

But  speaks  the  act 
Of  the  hand  that  steers  each  ceaseless-wheeling  sun 

And  to  whose  tact 

Fire-wreath  and  spangled  ice  alike  respond ; 
Thoughts  from  the  void  frozen  to  flower  and  frond, 

Divinely  all  compact ; 


WALTER  LESLIE  WILMSHURST         483 

Snowflakes,  of  pureness  unalloyed, 

That  in  dark  space 
Are  built,  and  spilt  from  out  the  teeming  void 

With  prodigal  grace, 

Air-quarried  temples  though  you  fall  scarce-felt 
And  all  your  delicate  architecture  melt 

To  tears  upon  my  face, — 

I  too  am  such  encrystalled  breath 

In  the  void  planned 
And  bodied  forth  to  surge  of  life  and  death  ; 

And  as  I  stand 

Beneath  this  sacramental  spilth  of  snow, 
Crumbling,  you  whisper  :    '  Fear  thou  not  to  go 

Back  to  the  viewless  hand; 

*  Thence  to  be  moulded  forth  again 

Through  time  and  space 
Till  thy  imperishable  self  attain 

Such  strength  and  grace 
Through  endless  infinite  refinement  passed 
By  the  eternal  Alchemist  that  at  last 

Thou  see  Him  face  to  face.' 


The  Mystery  of  Light 

SOULS  there  be  to  whom  'tis  given 
Easily  to  enter  heaven ; 
Scarce  an  effort  on  their  part, 
Without  struggle,  prayer,  or  art ; 
Sometimes  utterly  unknowing 
Why  such  glory  should  be  showing  ; 
Wondering  what  the  reason  is 
Of  the  inflaming  ecstasies 
That  Christ  giveth  unto  His. 


484         WALTER  LESLIE  WILMSHURST 

Often  they,  not  understanding, 
Catch  a  rarer  light  expanding  ; 
Doing  but  their  daily  task, 
Falls  away  some  filmy  mask, 
And  before  their  eyes  extended 
Heaven  with  earth  is  interblended  ; 
And  beyond  this  outward  strife 
They  see  what  hidden  peace  is  rife 
In  God's  great  reservoirs  of  life. 

Some  in  that  rapt  state  elysian 
Are  accorded  richer  vision  ; 
Watch  the  thronging  angels  pass 
To  a  high  celestial  Mass  ; 
See  a  veiled,  flaming  Centre, 
See  a  Great  High  Priest  there  enter, 
Whence  a  Host  he  lifteth  up 
And  a  crimson-brimming  Cup, 
Which  He  bids  all  eat  and  sup. 

Or  a  day  falls,  past  relating, 
When  a  Dove,  divinely  mating, 
Stirs  the  sheltering  leaves  apart 
O'er  some  deeply-nested  heart ; 
And,  Himself  within  interning, 
Lo  !   the  very  bush  is  burning 
With  the  blazonry  of  love 
Of  that  far-descended  Dove 
In  His  bridal-mate's  alcove. 

Such  things  simple  souls  and  holy 
Often  know,  whilst  men  less  lowly 
Beat  the  breast  and  bend  the  brain 
In  their  labour  to  attain  ; 


WALTER  LESLIE  WILMSHURST         485 

Till  from  heaven,  tired  of  crying, 
They  will  turn,  all  heaven  denying ; 
Seeking  ways  of  lesser  bliss 
Which,  in  His  large  Mysteries, 
Christ  denieth  not  to  His. 

Let  not  me,  who  have  no  mission 
Yet  to  see  the  shining  Vision, 
E'er  forget  that  night  and  day 
Are  His  strange  vicarious  way  ; 
He  by  one  prepares  the  other, 
Glooming  me  to  light  my  brother. 
May  I  ever  blinded  be 
If  my  disability 
Help  my  fellow-man  to  see. 

In  this  night  of  my  unknowing 

His  symbol-light  shall  be  my  showing. 

I'll  know  that  at  the  rise  of  sun 

High  Mass,  for  all,  in  heaven  's  begun  ; 

That  when  at  noon-tide  height  it  lingers 

Christ  lifts  the  Host  in  His  pierc'd  fingers ; 

And  at  its  setting  it  shall  tell 

How  He  descendeth,  loving  well, 

Even  to  me,  His  child  in  hell. 


RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 

b.  1866 

The  Second  Crucifixion 

I  OUD  mockers  in  the  roaring  street 
I    -j  Say,  Christ  is  crucified  again  : 
Twice  pierced  His  gospel-bearing  feet, 
Twice  broken  His  great  heart  in  vain. 


486  RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 

I  hear,  and  to  myself  I  smile, 

For  Christ  talks  with  me  all  the  while. 

No  angel  now  to  roll  the  stone 
From  off  His  unawaking  sleep, 

In  vain  shall  Mary  watch  alone, 
In  vain  the  soldiers  vigil  keep. 

Yet  while  they  deem  my  Lord  is  dead 
My  eyes  are  on  His  shining  head. 

Ah  !  never  more  shall  Mary  hear 
That  voice  exceeding  sweet  and  low 

Within  the  garden  calling  clear : 
Her  Lord  is  gone,  and  she  must  go. 

Yet  all  the  while  my  Lord  I  meet 
In  every  London  lane  and  street. 

Poor  Lazarus  shall  wait  in  vain, 
And  Bartimaeus  still  go  blind ; 

The  healing  hem  shall  ne'er  again 
Be  touched  by  suffering  humankind. 

Yet  all  the  while  I  see  them  rest, 
The  poor  and  outcast,  in  His  breast. 

No  more  unto  the  stubborn  heart 
With  gentle  knocking  shall  He  plead, 

No  more  the  mystic  pity  start, 

For  Christ  twice  dead  is  dead  indeed. 

So  in  the  street  I  hear  men  say, 
Yet  Christ  is  with  me  all  the  day. 


487 
LAURENCE  HOUSMAN 

b.  1865 

The  Continuing  City 

GOD,  who  made  man  out  of  dust, 
Willed  him  to  be 
Not  to  known  ends,  but  t^  trust 
His  decree. 

This  is  our  city,  a  soul 
Walled  within  clay ; 
Separate  hearts  of  one  whole, 
Bound  we  obey. 

All  that  He  meant  us  to  be, 
Could  we  discern, — 
Life  had  no  meaning, — or  we 
Had  not  to  learn. 

Thou,  beloved,  doubt  not  the  truth 
Eyesight  makes  dim  ! 
All  life,  to  age  from  youth, 
Brings  us  to  Him  : 

Him  Whom  thou  hast  not  seen, 
Canst  not  yet  know  : 
Human  hearts  stand  between, 
His  to  foreshow. 

Couldst  thou  possess  thine  own, 
That  were  the  key ; 
He,  to  Whom  hearts  are  known, 
Keeps  it  from  thee. 


488  LAURENCE  HOUSMAN 

Thou  all  thy  days  must  live, 
Thyself  the  quest ; 
Plucking  the  heart  to  give 
From  thine  own  breast. 

Till  thou,  from  other  eyes, 
At  kindred  calls, 
Seest  thine  own  towers  arise, 
And  thine  own  walls, — 

Where,  conquering  the  wide  air, 
Peopling  its  waste, 
Citadels  everywhere 
Like  stars  stand  based : 

Losing  thy  soul,  thy  soul 
Again  to  find  ; 
Rendering  toward  that  goal 
Thy  separate  mind. 


The  Mystery  of  the  incarnation 

A  DISPUTATION  BETWEEN  CHRIST  AND  THE  HUMAN  FORM 
(For  the  Feast  of  the  Nativity) 

COMEST  Thou  peaceably,  O  Lord  ? 
'  Yea,  I  am  Peace  ! 
Be  not  so  fearful  to  afford 
Thy  Maker  room  !   for  I  am  the  Reward 
To  which  all  generations  of  increase 
Looking  did  never  cease. 


LAURENCE  HOUSMAN  489 

'  Down  from  amid  dark  wings  of  storm 
I  set  My  Feet 

To  earth.    Will  not  My  earth  grow  warm 

To  feel  her  Maker  take  the  form 

He  made,  when  now,  Creation's  purpose  meet, 
Man's  body  is  to  be  God's  Mercy-seat  ?  ' 

Lord,  I  am  foul :  there  is  no  whole 

Fair  part  in  me 

Where  Thou  canst  deign  to  be ! 
This  form  is  not  Thy  making,  since  it  stole 

Fruit  from  the  bitter  Tree. 

*  Yet  still  thou  hast  the  griefs  to  give  in  toll 
That  I  may  test  the  sickness  of  man's  soul.' 

O  Lord,  my  work  is  without  worth  1 

I  am  afraid, 

Lest  I  should  mar  the  blissful  Birth. 
Quoth  Christ,  '  Ere  seas  had  shores,  or  earth 

Foundations  laid, 

My  Cross  was  made  ! ' 

*  Naught  canst  thou  do  that  was  not  willed 

By  Love  to  be, 

To  bring  the  Work  to  pass  through  Me. 

No  knee 

Stiffens,  or  bends  before  My  Sov'reignty, 
But  from  the  world's  beginning  hath  fulfilled 
Its  choice  betwixt  the  valleyed  and  the  hilled. 

For  both,  at  one  decree, 
My  Blood  was  jspilled.' 

Yet  canst  Thou  use  these  sin-stained  hands  ? 

'  These  hands,'  quoth  Christ, 

'  Of  them  I  make  My  need  : 
Since  they  sufficed  to  forge  the  bands 


490  LAURENCE  HOUSMAN 

Wherein  I  hunger,  they  shall  sow  the  seed  ! 
And  with  bread  daily  they  shall  feed 
My  Flesh  till,  bought  and  bound,  It  stands 
A  Sacrifice  to  bleed.' 

Lord,  let  this  house  be  swept  and  garnished  first ! 

For  fear  lest  sin 

Do  there  look  in, 

Let  me  shut  fast  the  windows  :  lest  Thou  thirst, 
Make  some  pure  inner  well  of  waters  burst  : 

For  no  sweet  water  can  man's  delving  win — 
Earth  is  so  curst. 

Also  bar  up  the  door  :  Thou  wilt  do  well 
To  dwell,  whilst  with  us,  anchorite  in  Thy  cell. 

Christ  said  '  Let  be  :   leave  wide 

All  ports  to  grief ! 

Here  when  I  knock  I  will  not  be  denied 
The  common  lot  of  all  that  here  abide ; 
Were  I  so  blinded,  I  were  blind  in  chief  : 
How  should  I  see  to  bring  the  blind  relief  ? ' 

Wilt  Thou  so  make  Thy  dwelling  ?    Then  I  fear 
Man,  after  this,  shall  dread  to  enter  here  : 
For  all  the  inner  courts  will  be  so  bright, 
He  shall  be  dazzled  with  excess  of  light, 

And  turn,  and  flee  ! 

'  But  from  his  birth  I  will  array  him  right, 
And  lay  the  temple  open  for  his  sight, 

And  say  to  help  him,  as  I  bid  him  see  : 

"  This  is  for  thee  !  "  ' 


LAURENCE  HOUSMAN  491 

Love,  the  Tempter 

(Season  of  Lent) 

OH,  tempt  me  not  i   I  love  too  well  this  snare 
Of  silken  cords. 
Nay,  Love,  the  flesh  is  fair  ; 

So  tempt  me  not !    This  earth  affords 
Too  much  delight ; 
Withdraw  Thee  from  my  sight, 
Lest  my  weak  soul  break  free 
And  throw  me  back  to  Thee  ! 

Thy  Face  is  all  too  marred.    Nay,  Love,  not  I — 

/  did  not  that  I    Doubtless  Thou  hadst  to  die  : 
Others  did  faint  for  Thee ;    but  I  faint  not. 
Only  a  little  while  hath  sorrow  got 

The  better  of  me  now  ;  for  Thou  art  grieved, 

Thinking  I  need  Thee.     Oh,  Christ,  lest  I  fall 
Weeping  between  Thy  Feet,  and  give  Thee  all : 

Oh,  Christ,  lest  love  condemn  me  unreprieved 

Into  Thy  bondage,  be  it  not  believed 
That  Thou  hast  need  of  me  ! 

Dost  Thou  not  know 

I  never  turned  aside  to  mock  Thy  Woe  ? 
I  had  respect  to  Thy  great  love  for  men  : 
Why  wilt  Thou,  then, 

Question  of  each  new  lust — 

'  Are  these  not  ashes,  and  is  this  not  dust  ?  ' 
Ah,  Love,  Thou  hast  not  eyes 

To  see  how  sweet  it  is  ! 
Each  for  himself  be  wise  : 

Mock  not  my  bliss ! 


492  LAURENCE  HOUSMAN 

Ere  Thou  cam'st  troubling,  was  I  not  content  ? 
Because  I  pity  Thee,  and  would  be  glad 
To  go  mine  own  way,  and  not  leave  Thee  sad, 

Is  all  my  comfort  spent  ? 

Go  Thine  own  ways,  nor  dream  Thou  needest  me ! 

Yet  if,  again,  Thou  on  the  bitter  Tree 

Wert  hanging  now,  with  none  to  succour  Thee 

Or  run  to  quench  Thy  sudden  cry  of  thirst, 

Would  not  I  be  the  first — 
Ah,  Love,  the  prize  ! — 
To  lift  one  cloud  of  suffering  from  Thine  Eyes  ? 

Oh,  Christ,  let  be  ! 

Stretch  not  Thine  ever-pleading  Hands  thus  wide, 
Nor  with  imperious  'gesture  touch  Thy  Side  ! 
Past  is  Thy  Calvary.    By  the  Life  that  died, 
Oh,  tempt  not  me  ! 

Nay,  if  Thou  weepest,  then  must  I  weep  too, 
Sweet  Tempter,  Christ !    Yet  what  can  7  undo, 

I,  the  undone,  the  undone, 

To  comfort  Thee,  God's  Son  ? 
Oh,  draw  me  near,  and,  for  some  lowest  use, 

That  I  may  be 

Lost  and  undone  in  Thee, 
Me  from  mine  own  self  loose  ! 


LAURENCE  HOUSMAN  493 

A  Prayer  f 01  the  Healing  of  the  Wounds 
of  Christ 

(For  Advent) 

IS  not  the  work  done  ?    Nay,  for  still  the  Scars 
Are  open  ;   still  Earth's  Pain  stands  deified, 
With  Arms  spread  wide  : 
And  still,  like  falling  stars, 

Its  Blood-drops  strike  the  doorposts,  where  abide 
The  watchers  with  the  Bride, 
To  wait  the  final  coming  of  their  kin, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  kingdoms  gathering  In. 

While  Earth  wears  wounds,  still  must  Christ's  Wounds 

remain, 
Whom  Love  made  Life,  and  of  Whom  Life  made  Pain, 

And  of  Whom  Pain  made  Death. 

No  breath, 
Without  Him,  sorrow  draws  ;   no  feet 

Wax  weary,  and  no  hands  hard  labour  bear, 

But  He  doth  wear 
The  travail  and  the  heat  : 
Also,  for  all  things  perishing,  He  saith, 
'  My  grief,  My  pain,  My  death.' 

O  kindred  Constellation  of  bright  stars, 

Ye  shall  not  last  for  aye  1 

Far  off  there  dawns  a  comfortable  day 
Of  healing  for  those  Scars : 

When,  faint  in  glory,  shall  be  wiped  away 

Each  planetary  fire, 
Now,  all  the  aching  way  the  balm  of  Earth's  desire  ! 


494  LAURENCE  HOUSMAN 

For  from  the  healed  nations  there  shall  come 

The  healing  touch  :   the  blind,  the  lamed,  the  dumb, 

With  sight,  and  speed,  and  speech, 

And  ardent  reach 

Of  yearning  hands  shall  cover  up  from  sight 
Those  Imprints  of  a  night 
Forever  past.    And  all  the  Morians'  lands 
Shall  stretch  out  hands  of  healing  to  His  Hands. 

While  to  His  Feet 

The  timid,  sweet 

Four-footed  ones  of  earth  shall  come  and  lay, 
Forever  by,  the  sadness  of  their  day : 
And,  they  being  healed,  healing  spring  from  them. 
So  for  the  Stem 

And  Rod  of  Jesse,  roots  and  trees  and  flowers, 
Touched  with  compassionate  powers, 

Shall  cause  the  thorny  Crown 

To  blossom  down 
Laurel  and  bay. 

So  lastly  to  His  Side, 

Stricken  when,  from  the  Body  that  had  died,    ( 
Going  down  He  saw  sad  souls  being  purified, 

Shall  rise,  out  of  the  deeps  no  man 

Can  sound  or  scan, 

The  morning  star  of  Heaven  that  once  fell 
And  fashioned  Hell  :— 

Now,  star  to  star 

Mingling  to  melt  where  shadeless  glories  are. 

O  Earth,  seek  deep,  and  gather  up  thy  soul, 
And  come  from  high  and  low,  and  near  and  far, 
And  make  Christ  whole  ! 


495 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  RUSSELL  ('  A.  E.') 

b.  1867 

Stat   Teachers 

EVEN  as  a  bird  sprays  many-coloured  fires, 
The  plumes  of  paradise,  the  dying  light 
Rays  through  the  fevered  air  in  misty  spires 
That  vanish  in  the  height. 

These  myriad  eyes  that  look  on  me  are  mine ; 
Wandering  beneath  them  I  have  found  again 
The  ancient  ample  moment,  the  divine, 
The  God-root  within  men. 

For  this,  for  this  the  lights  innumerable 
As  symbols  shine  that  we  the  true  light  win  : 
For  every  star  and  every  deep  they  fill 
Are  stars  and  deeps  within. 


Desire 

WITH  Thee  a  moment !     Then  what  dreams  have 
play! 

Traditions  of  eternal  toil  arise, 
Search  for  the  high,  austere  and  lonely  way 
The  Spirit  moves  in  through  eternities. 
Ah,  in  the  soul  what  memories  arise  ! 

And  with  what  yearning  inexpressible, 
Rising  from  long  forgetfulness  I  turn 
To  Thee,  invisible,  unrumoured,  still : 
White  for  Thy  whiteness  all  desires  burn. 
Ah,  with  what  longing  once  again  I  turn  ! 


496    GEORGE  WILLIAM  RUSSELL  ('  A.  E  ') 
The  City 

Full  of  Zeus  the  cities  :   full  of  Zeus  the  harbours :   full  of  Zeus 
are  all  the  ways  of  men. 

WHAT  domination  of  what  darkness  dies  this  hour, 
And  through  what  new,  rejoicing,  winged,  ethereal 

power 
O'erthrown,  the  cells  opened,  the  heart  released  from 

fear  ? 

Gay  twilight  and  grave  twilight  pass.    The  stars  appear 
O'er  the  prodigious,  smouldering,  dusky,  city  flare. 
The  hanging  gardens  of  Babylon  were  not  more  fair 
Than  these  blue  flickering  glades,  where  childhood  in  its 

glee 

Re-echoes  with  fresh  voice  the  heaven-lit  ecstasy. 
Yon  girl  whirls  like  an  eastern  dervish.    Her  dance  is 
No  less  a  god-intoxicated  dance  than  his, 
Though  all  unknowing  the  arcane  fire  that  lights  her  feet, 
What  motions  of  what  starry  tribes  her  limbs  repeat. 
I,  too,  firesmitten,  cannot  linger  :   I  know  there  lies 
Open  somewhere  this  hour  a  gate  to  Paradise, 
Its  blazing  battlements  with  watchers  thronged,  O  where  ? 
I  know  not,  but  my  flame-winged  feet  shall  lead   me 

there. 

O,  hurry,  hurry,  unknown  shepherd  of  desires, 
And  with  thy  flock  of  bright  imperishable  fires 
Pen  me  within  the  starry  fold,  ere  the  night  falls 
And  I  am  left  alone  below  immutable  walls, 
Or  am  I  there  already,  and  is  it  Paradise 
To  look  on  mortal  things  with  an  immortal's  eyes  ? 
Above  the  misty  brilliance  the  streets  assume 
A  night-dilated  blue  magnificence  of  gloom 
Like  many- templed  Nineveh  tower  beyond  tower ; 
And  I  am  hurried  on  in  this  immortal  hour. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  RUSSELL  ('  A.  E.')     497 

Mine  eyes  beget  new  majesties  :   my  spirit  greets 
The  trams,  the  high^built  glittering  galleons  of  the  streets 
That  float  through  twilight  rivers  from  galaxies  of  light. 
Nay,  in  the  Fount  of  Days  they  rise,  they  take  their  flight, 
And  wend  to  the  great  deep,  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 
Those  dark  misshapen  folk  to  be  made  lovely  there 
Hurry  with  me,  not  all  ignoble  as  we  seem, 
Lured  by  some  inexpressible  and  gorgeous  dream. 
The  earth  melts  in  my  blood.    The  air  that  I  inhale 
Is  like  enchanted  wine  poured  from  the  Holy  Grail. 
What  was  that  glimmer  then  ?    Was  it  the  flash  of  wings 
As  through  the  blinded  mart  rode  on  the  King  of  Kings  ? 
O  stay,  departing  glory,  stay  with  us  but  a  day, 
And  burning  seraphim  shall  leap  from  out  our  clay, 
And  plumed  and  crested  hosts  shall  shine  where  men  have 

been, 

Heaven  hold  no  lordlier  court  than  earth  at  College  Green. 
Ah,  no,  the  wizardy  is  over  ;  the  magic  flame 
That  might  have  melted  all  in  beauty  fades  as  it  came. 
The  stars  are  far  and  faint  and  strange.    The  night  draws 

down. 

Exiled  from  light,  forlorn,  I  walk  in  Dublin  Town. 
Yet  had  I  might  to  lift  the  veil,  the  will  to  dare, 
The  fiery  rushing  chariots  of  the  Lord  are  there, 
The  whirlwind  path,  the  blazing  gates,   the  trumpets 

blown, 

The  halls  of  heaven,  the  majesty  of  throne  by  throne, 
Enraptured  faces,  hands  uplifted,  welcome  sung 
By  the  thronged  gods,  tall,  golden-coloured,  joyful,  young 


498     GEORGE  WILLIAM  RUSSELL  ('  A.  E.') 

Krishna 

1   PAUSED  beside  the  cabin  door  and  saw  the  King 
of  Kings  at  play, 
Tumbled   upon   the  grass   I   spied   the  little  heavenly 

runaway. 
The  mother  laughed  upon  the  child  made  gay  by  its 

ecstatic  morn, 
And  yet  the  sages  spake  of    It  as  of  the  Ancient  and 

Unborn. 
I    heard    the    passion    breathed    amid    the    honeysuckle 

scented  glade, 
And  saw  the  King  pass  lightly  from  the  beauty  that  he  had 

betrayed. 
I  saw  him  pass  from  love  to  love  ;    and  yet  the  pure 

allowed  His  claim 
To   be  the  purest  of  the  pure,   thrice  holy,  stainless, 

without  blame. 
I  saw  the  open  tavern  door  flash  on  the  dusk  a  ruddy 

glare, 
And  saw  the  King  of  Kings  outcast  reel  brawling  through 

the  starlit  air. 
And  yet  He  is  the  Prince  of  Peace  of  whom  the  ancient 

wisdom  tells, 
And  by  their  silence  men  adore  the  lovely  silence  where 

He  dwells. 
I  saw  the  King  of  Kings  again,  a  thing  to  shudder  at  and 

fear, 
A  form  so  darkened  and  so  marred  that  childhood  fled 

if  it  drew  near. 
And  yet  He  is  the  Light  of  Lights  whose  blossoming  is 

Paradise, 
That  Beauty  of  the  King  which  dawns  upon  the  seers' 

enraptured  eyes. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  RUSSELL  («  A.  E.')     499 

I  saw  the  King  of  Kings  again,  a  miser  with  a  heart 

grown  cold, 

And  yet  He  is  the  Prodigal,  the  Spendthrift  of  the  Heavenly- 
Gold, 
The  largesse  of  whose  glory  crowns  the  blazing   brows 

of  cherubim, 
And   sun   and   moon   and   stars  and  flowers  are  jewels 

scattered  forth  by  Him 
I  saw  the  King  of  Kings  descend  the  narrow  doorway  to 

the  dust 
With  all  his  fires  of  morning  still,  the  beauty,  bravery, 

and  lust. 

And  yet  He  is  the  life  within  the  Ever-living  Living  Ones, 
The  ancient  with  eternal  youth,  the  cradle  of  the  infant 

suns, 
The  fiery  fountain  of  the  stars,  and  He  the  golden  urn 

where  all 
The  glittering  spray  of  planets  in  their  myriad  beauty  fall. 

Unity 

ONE  thing  in  all  things  have  I  seen  : 
One  thought  has  haunted  earth  and  air  : 
Clangour  and  silence  both  have  been 
Its  palace  chambers.    Everywhere 

I  saw  the  mystic  vision  flow 

And  live  in  men  and  woods  and  streams, 

Until  I  could  no  longer  know 

The  stream  of  life  from  my  own  dreams. 

Sometimes  it  rose  like  fire  in  me 
Within  the  depths  of  my  own  mind, 
And  spreading  to  infinity, 
It  took  the  voices  of  the  wind  : 


500      GEORGE  WILLIAM  RUSSELL  ('  A.  E.') 

It  scrawled  the  human  mystery — 
Dim  heraldry — on  light  and  air  ; 
Wavering  along  the  starry  sea 
I  saw  the  flying  vision  there. 

Each  fire  that  in  God's  temple  lit 
Burns  fierce  before  the  inner  shrine, 
Dimmed  as  my  fire  grew  near  to  it 
And  darkened  at  the  light  of  mine. 

At  last,  at  last,  the  meaning  caught — 
The  spirit  wears  its  diadem  ; 
It  shakes  its  wondrous  plumes  of  thought 
And  trails  the  stars  along  with  them. 


jReconcilia  tion 

I    BEGIN  through  the  grass  once  again  to  be  bound  to 
the  Lord  ; 
I  can  see,  through  a  face  that  has  faded,  the  face  full 

of  rest 
Of  the  earth,  of  the  mother,  my  heart  with  her  heart 

in  accord, 
As  I  lie  'mid  the  cool  green  tresses  that  mantle  her 

breast 
I  begin  with  the  grass  once  again  to  be  bound  to  the  Lord. 

By  the  hand  of  a  child  I  am  led  to  the  throne  of  the  King 
For  a  touch  that  now  fevers  me  not  is  forgotten  and  far, 

And  His  infinite  sceptred  hands  that  sway  us  can  bring 
Me  in  dreams  from  the  laugh  of  a  child  to  the  song  of 
a  star. 

On  the  laugh  of  a  child  I  am  borne  to  the  joy  of  the  King. 


5oi 
CHARLES  WEEKES 

b.  1867 

That 

.  .  .  alone 
From  all  eternity 

WHAT  is  that  beyond  thy  life, 
And  beyond  all  life  around, 
Which,  when  thy  quick  brain  is  still, 
Nods  to  thee  from  the  stars  ? 
Lo,  it  says,  thou  hast  found 
Me,  the  lonely,  lonely  one. 

DORA  SIGERSON  SHORTER 

/  am  the  IVorld 

I  AM  the  song,  that  rests  upon  the  cloud ; 
I  am  the  sun  ; 

I  am  the  dawn,  the  day,  the  hiding  shroud, 
When  dusk  is  done. 

I  am  the  changing  colours  of  the  tree ; 

The  flower  uncurled  ; 
I  am  the  melancholy  of  the  sea  ; 

I  am  the  world. 

The  other  souls  that,  passing  in  their  place, 

Each  in  his  groove  ; 
Outstretching  hands  that  chain  me  and  embrace, 

Speak  and  reprove. 

'  O  atom  of  that  law,  by  which  the  earth 

Is  poised  and  whirled  ; 
Behold  !   you  hurrying  with  the  crowd  assert 

You  are  the  world.' 


502  DORA  SIGERSON  SHORTER 

Am  I  not  one  with  all  the  things  that  be 

Warm  in  the  sun  ? 
All  that  my  ears  can  hear,  or  eyes  can  see, 

Till  all  be  done. 

Of  song  and  shine,  of  changing  leaf  apart, 

Of  bud  uncurled  : 
With  all  the  senses  pulsing  at  my  heart, 

I  am  the  world. 

One  day  the  song  that  drifts  upon  the  wind 

I  shall  not  hear  : 
Nor  shall  the  rosy  shoots  to  eyes  grown  blind 

Again  appear. 

Deaf,  in  the  dark,  I  shall  arise  and  throw 

From  off  my  soul 
The  withered  world  with  all  its  joy  and  woe, 

That  was  my  goal. 

I  shall  arise,  and  like  a  shooting  star 

Slip  from  my  place  ; 
So  lingering  see  the  old  world  from  afar 

Revolve  in  space. 

And  know  more  things  than  all  the  wise  may  know 

Till  all  be  done  ; 
Till  One  shall  come  who,  breathing  on  the  stars, 

Blows  out  the  sun. 


JANE  BARLOW 
Beyond  all  Shores  and  Seas 


E£S  yet  a  well  of  wonder 
All  shores  and  seas  beyond, 
Where  shines  that  dimness  under, 
More  deep  than  in  a  dream, 
Full  many  a  diamond 
With  elfin  gleam, 

Glows  up  the  glimmering  water 
Full  many  a  ruby's  fire  : 
If  ever  an  earth-born  daughter 
Their  wizard  light  beholcl, 
She  may  no  more  desire 
Our  gems  and  gold. 

Nay,  some  in  sooth,  who  only 
Adream  thereon  did  gaze, 
Thenceforth  fare  wandering  lonely, 
And  seek  with  sorrow  vain 
The  glory  of  such  rays 
To  find  again. 

Oft,  oft,  high-heavenward  turning 
The  quivering  Svtars  have  conned, 
Or  watched  the  wide  west  burning 
Nor  shall  their  hearts  appease, 
Whose  hope  lies  hid  beyond 
All  shores  and  seas. 


504  JANE  BARLOW 

One  and  All 

O'ER  boundless  fields  of  night,  lo,  near  and  far 
Light,  dewdrop's  blink,  and  Light,  Aeonian  star. 
Wan  wraiths  that  flickering  roam  by  marish  ways  ; 
Fierce  surge  of  levin-bright  foam  where  oceans  blaze — 
Fly's  spark  and  flame  gulfs  dire,  your  fount  is  one, 
Deep  in  the  worlds'  arch-fire  of  all  suns'  Sun. 

A  burning  seed  of  strife  Fate  strews,  and  so 
Life,  men's  grudged  dole,  and  Life,  gods'  feast  aglow. 
Clod's  captive,  senses'  thrall,  oft  grieved,  soon  slain  ; 
Immortal,  glad  o'er  all  to  range  and  reign — 
Frail  breath,  and  spirit  eterne,  beyond  thought's  seeing 
Ye  touch  for  one  sole  bourne  all  being's  Being. 

JAMES  STEPHENS 
The  Seeker 

I  SAT  me  down  and  looked  around 
The  little  lamp-lit  room,  and  saw 
Where  many  pictures  gloomed  and  frowned 
In  sad,  still  life,  nor  made  a  sound — 
A  many  for  one  to  draw  : 

Shadow  and  sea  and  ground 
Held  by  the  artist's  law, 
Beauty  without  a  flaw, 
All  with  a  sense  profound. 

One  teeming  brain  was  wood  and  hill, 
And  sloping  pastures  wide  and  green, 
And  cool,  deep  seas  where  rivers  spill 
The  snows  of  mountains  far  and  chill, 
Sad  pools  where  the  shadows  lean. 


JAMES  STEPHENS  505 

Old  trees  that  hang  so  still. 
Fields  which  the  reapers  glean. 
Plains  where  the  wind  is  keen. 
Each  with  a  nerve  to  thrill. 

Elusive  figures  swayed  and  yearned 
By  lake  and  misty  greenwood  dim, 
Seeking  in  sorrow  :   they  had  learned 
In  one  night's  dream  might  be  discerned, 
A  pace  from  the  world's  rim, 

Wages  their  woe  had  earned, 

Rest  from  the  labour  grim, 

God  and  the  peace  of  Him — 

These  in  a  frame  interned, 

On  through  the  forest,  one  step  on, 
One  step,  O  Powers,  let  me  attain 
This  hard,  dead  step,  let  me  be  gone 
Back  where  I  and  the  morning  shone, 
Back  ere  the  dream  shall  wa*ne 

When  I  and  a  star  were  one. 

Seen  through  the  veils  of  pain 

Glory  shall  shine  again  : 

God,  has  the  vision  gone  ? 


The  Fullness  of  Time 

ON  a  rusty  iron  throne 
Past  the  furthest  star  of  space 
I  saw  Satan  sit  alone, 
Old  and  haggard  was  his  face  ; 
For  his  work  was  done  and  he 
Rested  in  eternity. 


5o6  JAMES  STEPHENS 

And  to  him  from  out  the  sun 
Came  his  father  and  his  friend 
Saying,  now  the  work  is  done 
Enmity  is  at  an  end  : 
And  he  guided  Satan  to 
Paradises  that  he  knew. 

Gabriel  without  a  frown, 
Uriel  without  a  spear, 
Raphael  came  singing  down 
Welcoming  their  ancient  peer, 
And  they  seated  him  beside 
One  who  had  been  crucified. 

The  Breath  of  Life 

AJD  while  they  talked  and  talked,  and  while  they  sat 
Changing  their  base  minds  into  baser  coin  ; 
And  telling — they  !   how  truth  and  beauty  join, 
And  how  a  certain  this  was  good,  but  that 
Was  baser  than  the  viper  or  the  toad, 
Or  the  blind  beggar  glaring  down  the  road. 

I  turned  from  them  in  fury,  and  I  ran 
To  where  the  moon  shone  out  upon  the  height, 
Down  the  long  reaches  of  a  summer  night, 
Stretching  slim  fingers,  and  the  starry  clan 
Grew  thicker  than  the  flowers  that  we  see 
Clustered  in  quiet  fields  of  greenery. 

Around  me  was  the  night-time  sane  and  cold, 
The  clouds  that  knew  no  care  and  no  restraint 
Swung  through  the  silences,  or  drifted  faint 
To  pale  horizons,  wreathing  fold  on  fold, 
The  moon's  sharp  edge,  each  rolling  cloud  a  sea, 
A  foam  of  silver  shining  gloriously. 


JAMES  STEPHENS  507 

t 

The  quietudes  that  sunder  star  from  star, 
The  hazy  distances  of  loneliness, 
Where  never  eagle's  wing  or  timid  press 
Of  lark  or  wren  could  venture,  and  the  far 
Profundities  untravelled  and  unstirred 
By  any  act  of  man  or  thought  or  word. 

These  held  me  with  amazement  and  delight : 
I  yearned  up  through  the  spaces  of  the  sky, 
Beyond  the  rolling  clouds,  beyond  the  high 
And  delicate  white  moon,  and  up  the  height, 
And  past  the  rocking  stars,  and  out  to  where 
The  ether  failed  in  spaces  sharp  and  bare. 

The  breath  that  is  the  very  breath  of  life 

Throbbed  close  to  me  :   I  heard  the  pulses  beat, 

That  lift  the  universes  into  heat : 

The  slow  withdrawal,  and  the  deeper  strife 

Of  His  wide  respiration,  like  a  sea 

It  ebbed  and  flooded  through  immensity. 

His  breath  alone  in  wave  on  mighty  wave  ! 
O  moon  and  stars  swell  to  a  raptured  song  ! 
Ye  mountains  toss  the  harmony  along  ! 
O  little  men  with  little  souls  to  save 
Swing  up  glad  chantings,  ring  the  skies  above, 
With  boundless  gratitude  for  boundless  love  ! 

Probing  the  ocean  to  its  steepest  drop  ; 
Rejoicing  in  the  viper  and  the  toad, 
And  the  blind  beggar  glaring  down  the  road  ; 
And  they  who  talk  and  talk  and  never  stop 
Equally  quickening  ;  with  a  care  to  bend 
The  gnat's  slant  wing  into  a  swifter  end. 


5o8  JAMES  STEPHENS 

Searching  the  quarries  of  all  life,  the  deep 
Low  crannies  and  shy  places  of  the  world, 
To  warm  the  smallest  insect  that  is  curled 
In  a  deep  root,  or  on  the  sun  to  heap 
Fiercer  combustion,  spending  love  on  all 
In  equal  share,  the  mighty  and  the  small. 

The  silence  clung  about  me  like  a  gift, 

The  tender  night-time  folded  me  around 

Protectingly,  and  in  a  peace  profound 

The  clouds  drooped  slowly  backward  drift  on  drift 

Into  the  darkness,  and  the  moon  was  gone, 

And  soon  the  stars  had  vanished  every  one. 

But  on  the  sky,  a  handsbreadth  in  the  west, 

A  faint  cold  brightness  crept  and  soared  and  spread, 

Until  the  rustling  heavens  overhead, 

And  the  grey  trees  and  grass  were  manifest : 

Then  through  the  chill  a  golden  spear  was  hurled, 

And  the  big  sun  tossed  laughter  on  the  world. 


JOHN  CHARLES  EARLE 

Onward  and  Upward 

I  PASS  the  vale.    I  breast  the  steep. 
I  bear  the  cross  :   the  cross  bears  me. 
Light  leads  me  on  to  light.    I  weep 

For  joy  at  what  I  hope  to  see 
When,  scaled  at  last  the  arduous  height, 

For  every  painful  step  I  trod, 
I  traverse  worlds  on  worlds  of  light, 
And  pierce  some  deeper  depth  of  God. 


JOHN  CHARLES  EARLE  509 


' L,o^  I  am  'with  you  always' 

WIDE  fields  of  corn  along  the  valleys  spread  ; 
The  rain  and  dews  mature  the  swelling  vine  ; 
I  see  the  Lord  is  multiplying  bread  ; 

I  see  Him  turning  water  into  wine  ; 

I  see  Him  working  all  the  works  divine 
He  wrought  when  Salemward  His  steps  were  led  ; 

The  selfsame  miracles  around  Him  shine  ; 
He  feeds  the  famished  ;  He  revives  the  dead  ; 

He  pours  the  flood  of  light  on  darkened  eyes- ; 
He  chases  tears,  diseases,  fiends  away  ; 

His  throne  is  raised  upon  these  orient  skies ; 
His  footstool  is  the  pave  whereon  we  pray. 

Ah,  tell  me  not  of  Christ  in  Paradise, 
For  He  is  all  around  us  here  to-day. 

'  Found  of  them  that  sought  Him  not  * 

I  WILL  arise  and  to  my  Father  go  ; 
This  very  hour  the  journey  is  begun. 
I  start  to  reach  the  blissful  goal,  and,  lo, 

My  spirit  at  one  bound  her  race  has  run. 

For  seeking  God  and  finding  Him  are  one. 
He  feeds  the  rillets  that  towards  Him  flow. 

It  is  the  Father  Who  first  seeks  the  son, 
And  moves  all  heavenward  movement,  swift  or  slow. 
I  dare  not  pride  myself  on  finding  Him. 

I  dare  not  dream  a  single  step  was  mine. 
His  was  the  vigour  in  the  palsied  limb — 

His  the  electric  fire  along  the  line — 
When  drowning,  His  the  untaught  power  to  swim 

Float  o'er  the  surge,  and  grasp  the  rock  divine. 


510  JOHN  CHARLES  EARLE 

Bodily  Extension 

rT"'HE  body  is  not  bounded  by  its  skin  ; 
1     Its  effluence,  like  a  gentle  cloud  of  scent, 

Is  wide  into  the  air  diffused,  and,  blent 
With  elements  unseen,  its  way  doth  win 
To  ether  frontiers,  where  take  origin 

Far  subtler  systems,  nobler  regions  meant 

To  be  the  area  and  the  instrument 
Of  operations  ever  to  begin 
Anew  and  never  end.    Thus  every  man 

Wears  as  his  robe  the  garment  of  the  sky — 
So  close  his  union  with  the  cosmic  plan, 

So  perfectly  he  pierces  low  and  high — 
Reaching  as  far  in  space  as  creature  can, 

And  co-extending  with  immensity. 

ARTHUR  SHEARLY  CRIPPS 

b. 1869 

Missa  F'iatoris 

(In  dread,  of  Famine) 

HERE,  Pan,  on  grey  rock  slab  we  set  for  Thee 
Thy  Feast— the  White  Cake  and  the  Red  in  Cup- 
Shepherd  and  Lamb,  we,  lost  goats,  offer  up 
In  pastoral  wise  Thine  own  Divinity. 

The  scared  moon  dips,  the  hardy  sun  comes  up 
To  spy  our  Secret  from  yon  cloudy  hill : 
O  Pan  that  Thou  by  cloud  and  sun  mayst  fill 
Our  hills  with  food,  we  lift  Thy  Cake  and  Cup. 

Heart  of  all  good  in  men  and  beasts  and  earth, 
Here  on  the  hill  our  hearts,  we  lift  them  up  : 
Life-Blood  and  Flesh— White  Cake  and  Red  in  Cup— 
We  break  and  pour  Thee  for  our  drought  and  dearth  ! 


ARTHUR  SHEARLY  CRIPPS  511 

An  Raster  Hymn 

(Easter  in  South  Africa  falls  in  Autumn) 

HIS  wide  Hands  fashioned  us  white  grains  and  red, 
His  Eyes  weep  rains  to  swell  them  in  their  bed, 
Whereby  the  dust-grains  of  our  lives  are  fed. 

Alleluia  ! 

In  Earth  our  mother's  bosom  undecayed 
The  Seed-corn  of  the  Flesh  He  took,  He  laid — 
One  white  small  Grain  beneath  a  sealed  rock's  shade. 

Alleluia  ! 

How  blind  that  Seed  lay  till  this  autumn  morn 
When  forth  it  sprouted  blade  and  flower  and  corn, 
And  with  Its  lifted  Head  the  seal  was  torn  ! 

Alleluia  ! 

Hope  of  men's  bodies'  grains  both  red  and  white — 
Shrivelled  and  sere  and  void  of  speech  and  sight, 
Is  that  blind  Seed  Who  burst  His  way  to  light. 

Alleluia  ! 

We,  God's  red  millet  grains,  men  hold  so  cheap, 
Innumerable  beneath  our  grey  rocks  sleep, 
Yet  He  that  cared  to  sow  us  cares  to  reap. 

Alleluia  ! 

The  Black  Christ 
(At  Easter  in  South  Africa) 

PILATE  and  Caiaphas 
They  have  brought  this  thing  to  pass — 
That  a  Christ  the  Father  gave, 
Should  be  guest  within  a  grave. 


512  ARTHUR  SHEARLY  CRIPPS 

Church  and  State  have  willed  to  last 

This  tyranny  not  over-past ; 

His  dark  southern  Brows  around 

They  a  wreath  of  briars  have  bound, 

In  His  dark  despised  Hands 

Writ  in  sores  their  writing  stands. 

By  strait  starlit  ways  I  creep, 
Caring  while  the  careless  sleep, 
Bearing  balms,  and  flow'rs  to  crown 
That  poor  Head  the  stone  holds  down, 
Through  some  crack  or  crevice  dim 
I  would  reach  my  sweets  to  Him. 

Easter  suns  they  rise  and  set, 

But  that  stone  is  steadfast  yet : 

Past  my  lifting  'tis  bu  t  I 

When  'tis  lifted  would  be  nigh. 

I  believe,  whate'er  they  say, 

The  sun  shall  dance  an  Easter  Day, 

And  I  that  through  thick  twilight  grope 

With  balms  of  faith,  and  flow'rs  of  hope, 

Shall  lift  mine  eyes  and  see  that  stone 

Stir  and  shake,  if  not  be  gone. 


From  'The  Death  of  St.  Francis' 

WHAT  art  Thou,  dearest  Lord,  and  what  am  I, 
Vile  worm  and  worthless  dust  ?  ' 

He  answered  me. 

On  Holy  Cross  Day  to  my  prayer  there  came 
An  Angel  bearing  in  his  rainbow  wings 
Nailed  Hands  and  Feet,  the  Image  of  my  Lord. 


ARTHUR  SHEARLY  CRIPPS  513 

How  can  I  tell  it  ?    The  thing  is  sacred,  dear, 

0  brothers  mine,  I  give  you  all  I  can, 
And  yet  I  leave  you  but  the  husk  of  it, 
The  heart  of  it  I  selfish  take  away. 

How  can  I  tell  ?    The  thing  is  sacred,  dear, — 
Hands  grew  to  hands,  feet  seemed  to  grow  to  feet, 
His  Hands  to  my  hands,  Feet  of  His  to  mine  ; 
Exalted  and  extended  on  His  cross, 

1  seemed  in  one  great  stab  of  eager  pain 
To  feel  His  heart  beating  within  my  heart. 

Brethren,  this  thing  so  sacred,  and  so  dear, 
I  would  that  I  could  tell  you,  for  it  seems 
Surely  a  sin  to  give  God's  poor  my  all, 
And  yet  to  keep  Love's  purest  ingot  back, 
That  fever-throb  of  His  within  my  heart, 
That  moment's  gold  refined  in  sharpest  fire, 
And  anguish  of  a  crucifying  world. 

'  What  art  Thou,  dearest  Lord,  and  what  am  I. 
Vile  worm  and  worthless  servant  ? ' 

Answer  came. 

I  felt  His  Heart  to  beat  within  my  heart. 
It  seemed  He  lent  His  Sacred  Heart  to  me  : 
One  moment  did  I  know  His  wish,  His  work, 
As  if  mine  own  they  were,  and  knew  with  them 
The  worm-like  weakness  of  my  wasted  life, 
My  service  worthless  to  win  back  His  world. 
(Sharp  Sister  Faintness  knits  dark  brows  at  me, 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  looks  sweet  Sister  Death, 
Holding  a  glass  my  last  hour's  sands  run  down.) 

I  cannot  tell  the  half  of  it,  yet  hear 
What  rush  of  feeling  still  comes  back  to  me, 
MYST.  s 


5i4  ARTHUR  SHEARLY  CRIPPS 

From  that  proud  torture  hanging  on  His  Cross, 
From  that  gold  rapture  of  His  Heart  in  mine. 

I  knew  in  blissful  anguish  what  it  means 

To  be  a  part  of  Christ,  and  feel  as  mine 

The  dark  distresses  of  my  brother  limbs, 

To  feel  it  bodily  and  simply  true, 

To  feel  as  mine  the  starving  of  His  poor. 

To  feel  as  mine  the  shadow  of  curse  on  all, 

Hard  words,  hard  looks,  and  savage  misery, 

And  struggling  deaths,  unpitied  and  unwept. 

To  feel  rich  brothers'  sad  satieties, 

The  weary  manner  of  their  lives  and  deaths, 

That  want  in  love,  and  lacking  love  lack  all. 

To  feel  the  heavy  sorrow  of  the  world 

Thicken  and  thicken  on  to  future  hell, 

To  mighty  cities  with  their  miles  of  streets, 

Where  men  seek  work  for  days,  and  walk  and  starve. 

Freezing  on  river-banks  on  winter  nights, 

And  come  at  last  to  cord  or  stream  or  steel. 

The  horror  of  the  things  our  brothers  bear  ! 

It  was  but  naught  to  that  which  after  came, 

The  woe  of  things  we  make  our  brothers  bear, 

Our  brothers  and  our  sisters !    In  my  heart 

Christ's  Heart  seemed  beating,  and  the  world's  whole  sin,- 

Its  crimson  malice  and  grey  negligence, — 

Rose  up  and  blackening  hid  the  Face  of  God. 

I  that  in  Christ  had  tasted  to  the  full 
The  nails  and  knotted  scourges  of  the  world, 
Now  felt  the  contrary  and  greater  woe, — 
The  utmost  ache  of  God's  atoning  grief, — 
Their  bitterness  who  scourge  and  drive  the  nails, 


ARTHUR  SHEARLY  CRIPPS  515 

And  bring  upon  themselves  a  darker  pain 

Than  any  felt  by  scourged  or  crucified. 

Upon  my  heart  gnawed,  worse  than  sorrow  of  death; — 

Sorrow  of  selfishness,  and  cursed  my  Cross 

With  black  forsaking  of  the  Face  of  Love. 

My  God,  my  God,  Thou  wast  forsaking  me  !  ... 

Ah  !   brothers  mine,  how  any  words  are  cold 

To  tell  the  agony  of  being  part 

Of  every  schism  in  the  Crucified, 

Of  feeling  hand  smite  out  at  fellow  hand, 

And  foot  spurn  fellow  foot,  and  breasts  refuse 

The  milk  of  mercy  to  the  lips  that  were 

Flesh  of  their  own  flesh.    The  sucked  and  empty  names 

Of  *  brother  '  and  of  '  sister  '  how  they  hissed, 

Hissed  through  the  savage  teeth  that  tore  the  flesh, 

Withered  in  mouths  that  kissed  to  endless  shame. 

No  sob  of  Love  but  echoing  fell  away 

In  earthquake  thunders  of  unthankfulness. 

Vile  worm  and  worthless  servant,  how  I  knew 
My  work,  our  work,  as  nothing  in  that  tide 
Of  a  vast  world's  refusal  of  the  Cross 
Setting  toward  that  world's  appointed  doom  ! 

The  thing  is  very  sacred,  very  dear, 

Sweet  Jesu,  help  me  tell  them,  how  my  heart 

Swelled  near  to  breaking  with  the  Love  of  Thine, 

That  felt  it  all  and  Loved  and  Loved  and  Loved. 

I  felt  the  Sacred  Heart  within  my  own, 

And  knew  one  pulse  therein  of  purest  strength, 

That  drove  a  cry  of  passion  to  my  lips, 

'  Father,  forgive,  they  know  not  what  they  do.' 


516  ARTHUR  SHEARLY  CRIPPS 

Could  I  but  tell  you  how  that  cry  seemed  truth — 
The  truest  prayer  my  lips  had  ever  made — 
I  had  told  you  almost  all !    It  may  not  be. 

0  Heart  of  Jesus,  Sacred,  Passionate, 
Anguish  it  was,  yet  anguish  that  was  bliss, 

To  love  them  heart  to  heart,  each  selfish  heart, 
To  clasp  them  close,  and  pray  in  utter  truth — 
'  Father,  forgive,  they  know  not  what  they  do.' 
One  was  the  heart  of  him  that  ground  the  poor, 
Poor  weary  heart,  so  blinded  and  misled  ! 
One  was  the  heart  of  her  that  reeked  in  shame, 
Poor  weary  heart,  so  blinded  and  misled  ! 
One  was  my  heart  that  wasted  half  its  years, 
And  knew  so  little  how  to  use  the  rest 
To  God's  sole  glory,  and  the  love  of  men, 
Poor  weary  heart,  so  blinded  and  misled  ! 

But  O  !   that  Sacred  Heart  rushed  out  to  them 
In  veriest  anguish  and  in  veriest  bliss, 
Demanding,  craving,  in  sure  hope  of  them, 
'  Father,  forgive,  they  know  not  what  they  do.' 

And  O  !   that  Sacred  Heart  burnt  up  in  Flame 
Against  that  harsh  misleader  of  our  world, 
And  O  !   I  felt  an  awful  thrill  of  Love 
As  with  one  heart-beat  of  wild  ecstasy 

1  set  my  heel  upon  that  Serpent's  head 

In  resolute  anguish,  watching  how  the  fangs 

Snapped  at  my  heel,  and  gored  it  into  blood, 

My  heel  that  yet  shall  grind  his  head  to  dust. 

Was  it  I  that  did  it  ?    Nay,  the  Christ  in  me, 

But  when  I  woke  His  Prints  were  in  my  hands, 

And  in  my  feet,  while  in  my  side  there  showed 

As  it  were  the  Heart- Wound  from  the  soldier's  lance. 


ROBERT  HUGH  BENSON 

1871-1914 
The  T ere  si  an  Contemplative 

SHE  moves  in  tumult ;   round  her  lies 
The  silence  of  the  world  of  grace  ; 
The  twilight  of  our  mysteries 

Shines  like  high  noonday  on  her  face  ; 
Our  piteous  guesses,  dim  with  fears, 
She  touches,  handles,  sees,  and  hears. 

In  her  all  longings  mix  and  meet ; 

Dumb  souls  through  her  are  eloquent ; 
She  feels  the  world  beneath  her  feet 

Thrill  in  a  passionate  intent ; 
Through  her  our  tides  of  feeling  roll 
And  find  their  God  within  her  soul. 

Her  faith  the  awful  Face  of  God 

Brightens  and  blinds  with  utter  light ; 

Her  footsteps  fall  where  late  He  trod  ; 
She  sinks  in  roaring  voids  of  night ; 

Cries  to  her  Lord  in  black  despair, 

And  knows,  yet  knows  not,  He  is  there. 

A  willing  sacrifice  she  takes 

The  burden  of  our  fall  within  ; 
Holy  she  stands  ;   while  on  her  breaks 

The  lightning  of  the  wcath  of  sin  ; 
She  drinks  her  Saviour's  cup  of  pain, 
And,  one  with  Jesus,  thirsts  again. 


5i 8  ROBERT  HUGH  BENSON 

From  '  Christian  Evidences ' 

X  TOW  God  forbid  that  Faith  be  blind  assent, 

1  \|  Grasping  what  others  know ;  else  Faith  were  nought 

But  learning,  as  of  some  far  continent 

Which  others  sought, 

And  carried  thence,  better  the  tale  to  teach, 
Pebbles  and  shells,  poor  fragments  of  the  beach. 

Now  God  forbid  that  Faith  be  built  on  dates, 

Cursive  or  uncial  letters,  scribe  or  gloss, 
What  one  conjectures,  proves,  or  demonstrates : 

This  were  the  loss 

Of  all  to  which  God  bids  that  man  aspire, 
This  were  the  death  of  life,  quenching  of  fire. 

Nay,  but  with  Faith  I  see.    Not  even  Hope, 
•  Her  glorious  sister,  stands  so  high  as  she. 
For  this  but  stands  expectant  on  the  slope 

That  leads  where  He 

Her  source  and  consummation  sets  His  seat, 
Where  Faith  dwells  always  to  caress  His  Feet. 

Nay,  but  with  Faith  I  saw  my  Lord  and  God 

Walk  in  the  fragrant  garden  yesterday. 
Ah  !   how  the  thrushes  sang ;   and,  where  He  trod 

Like  spikenard  lay 

Jewels  of  dew,  fresh-fallen  from  the  sky, 
While  all  the  lawn  rang  round  with  melody. 

Nay,  but  with  Faith  I  marked  my  Saviour  go, 

One  August  noonday,  down  the  stifling  street 
That  reeked  with  filth  and  man  ;  marked  from  Him  flow 

Radiance  so  sweet, 

The  man  ceased  cursing,  laughter  lit  the  child, 
The  woman  hoped  again,  as  Jesus  smiled. 


ROBERT  HUGH  BENSON  519 

Nay,  but  with  Faith  I  sought  my  Lord  last  night, 

And  found  Him  shining,  where  the  lamp  was  dim  ; 
The  shadowy  altar  glimmered,  height  on  height, 

A  throne  for  Him  : 

Seen  as  through  lattice  work  His  gracious  Face 
Looked  forth  on  me  and  filled  the  dark  with  grace. 

Nay  then,  if  proof  and  tortured  argument 

Content  thee — teach  thee  that  the  Lord  is  there, 
Or  risen  again  ;   I  pray  thee  be  content, 

But  leave  me  here 

With  eye  unsealed  by  any  proof  of  thine, 
With  eye  unsealed  to  know  the  Lord  is  mine. 


GILBERT  KEITH  CHESTERTON 

b.  1873 

The  Holy  of  Holies 

ELDER  father,  though  thine  eyes 
Shine  with  hoary  mysteries, 
Canst  thou  tell  what  in  the  heart 
Of  a  cowslip  blossom  lies  ? 

*  Smaller  than  all  lives  that  be, 
Secret  as  the  deepest  sea, 
Stands  a  little  house  of  seeds, 
Like  an  elfin's  granary. 

*  Speller  of  the  stones  and  weeds, 
Skilled  in  Nature's  Drafts  and  creeds. 
Tell  me  what  is  in  the  heart 

Of  the  smallest  of  the  seeds.' 


520          GILBERT  KEITH  CHESTERTON 

*  God  Almighty,  and  with  Him 
Cherubim  and  Seraphim, 
Filling  all  eternity — 
Adonai  Elohim.' 


ALEISTER  CROWLEY 

b.  1875 
The  Quest 

APART,  immutable,  unseen, 
Being,  before  itself  had  been, 
Became.    Like  dew  a  triple  queen 

Shone  as  the  void  uncovered  : 
The  silence  of  deep  height  was  drawn 
A  veil  across  the  silver  dawn 
On  holy  wings  that  hovered.1 

The  music  of  three  thoughts  became 
The  beauty,  that  is  one  white  flame, 
The  justice  that  surpasses  shame, 

The  victory,  the  splendour, 
The  sacred  fountain  that  is  whirled 
From  depths  beyond  that  older  world 

A  new  world  to  engender.2 

The  kingdom  is  extended.3    Night 
Dwells,  and  I  contemplate  the  sight 
That  is  not  seeing,  but  the  light 
That  secretly  is  kindled, 

1  A  qabalistic  description  of  Macroprosopus.     'Dew/  'Deep 
Height,'  &c.,  are  his  titles. 

2  Microprosopus. 

3  Malkuth,  the  Bride.    In  its  darkness  the  Light  may  yet  be 
found. 


ALEISTER  CROWLEY  521 

Though  oft -time  its  most  holy  fire 
Lacks  oil,  whene'er  my  own  Desire 
Before  desire  has  dwindled. 

I  see  the  thin  web  binding  me 
With  thirteen  cords  of  unity  * 
Toward  the  calm  centre  of  the  sea. 

(O  thou  supernal  mother  !  2) 
The  triple  light  my  path  divides 
To  twain  and  fifty  sudden  sides  3 

Each  perfect  as  each  other. 

Now  backwards,  inwards  still  my  mind 
Must  track  the  intangible  and  blind, 
And  seeking,  shall  securely  find 

Hidden  in  secret  places 
Fresh  feasts  for  every  soul  that  strives, 
New  life  for  many  mystic  lives, 

And  strange  new  forms  and  faces. 

My  mind  still  searches,  and  attains 

By  many  days  and  many  pains 

To  That  which  Is  and  Was  and  reigns 

Shadowed  in  four  and  ten  ;  4 
And  loses  self  in  sacred  lands, 
And  cries  and  quickens,  and  understands 

Beyond  the  first  Amen.5 

1  The  Hebrew  characters  composing  the  name  Achd,  Unity, 
add  up  to  13. 

2  Binah,  the  Great  Deep :    the  offended  Mother  who  shall  be 
reconciled  to  her  daughter  by  Bn,  the  Son. 

3  Bn  adds  to  52. 

4  Jehovah,  the  name  of  4  letters,  1  +  2+3+4  =  10. 

5  The  first  Amen  is  =  91  or  7  X  13.  The  second  is  the  Inscrutable 
Arnoun. 

53 


522  ALEISTER  CROWLEY 

The  Neophyte^ 

TO-NIGHT  I  tread  the  unsubstantial  way 
That  looms  before  me,  as  the  thundering  night 
Falls  on  the  ocean  :   I  must  stop,  and  pray 
One  little  prayer,  and  then — what  bitter  fight 
Flames  at  the  end  beyond  the  darkling  goal  ? 
These  are  my  passions  that  my  feet  must  tread  ; 
This  is  my  sword,  the  fervour  of  my  soul ; 
This  is  my  Will,  the  crown  upon  my  head. 
For  see  !   the  darkness  beckons :   I  have  gone, 
Before  this  terrible  hour,  towards  the  gloom, 
Braved  the  wild  dragon,  called  the  tiger  on 
With  whirling  cries  of  pride,  sought  out  the  tomb 
Where  lurking  vampires  battened,  and  my  steel 
Has  wrought  its  splendour  through  the  gates  of  death. 
My  courage  did  not  falter  :   now  I  feel 
My  heart  beat  wave-wise,  and  my  throat  catch  breath 
As  if  I  choked  ;  some  horror  creeps  between 
The  spirit  of  my  will  and  its  desire, 
Some  just  reluctance  to  the  Great  Unseen 
That  coils  its  nameless  terrors,  and  its  dire 
Fear  round  my  heart ;  a  devil  cold  as  ice 
Breathes  somewhere,  for  I  feel  his  shudder  take 
My  veins :  some  deadlier  asp  or  cockatrice 
Slimes  in  my  senses  :   I  am  half  awake, 
Half  automatic,  as  I  move  along 
Wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  blackness  deep  as  hell, 
Hearing  afar  some  half-forgotten  song 
As  of  disruption  ;  yet  strange  glories  dwell 
Above  my  head,  as  if  a  sword  of  light, 
Rayed  of  the  very  Dawn,  would  strike  within 
The  limitations  of  this  deadly  night 
That  folds  me  for  the  sign  of  death  and  sin — 

1  This  poem  describes  the  Initiation  of  the  true  '  Hermetic 
Order  of  the  Golden  Dawn  '  in  its  spiritual  aspect. 


ALEISTER  CROWLEY  523 

0  Light !   descend  !  My  feet  move  vaguely  on 
In  this  amazing  darkness,  in  the  gloom 

That  I  can  touch  with  trembling  sense.    There  shone 

Once,  in  my  misty  memory,  in  the  womb 

Of  some  unformulated  thought,  the  flame 

And  smoke  of  mighty  pillars ;  yet  my  mind 

Is  clouded  with  the  horror  of  this  same 

Path  of  the  wise  men  :  for  my  soul  is  blind 

Yet :   and  the  foemen  I  have  never  feared 

1  could  not  see  (if  such  should  cross  the  way), 
And  therefore  I  am  strange  :   my  soul  is  seared 
With  desolation  of  the  blinding  day 

I  have  come  out  from  :   yes,  that  fearful  light 

Was  not  the  Sun  :   my  life  has  been  the  death, 

This  death  may  be  the  life  :   my  spirit  sight 

Knows  that  at  last,  at  least.    My  doubtful  breath 

Is  breathing  in  a  nobler  air  ;   I  know, 

I  know  it  in  my  soul,  despite  of  this, 

The  clinging  darkness  of  the  Long  Ago, 

Cruel  as  death,  and  closer  than  a  kiss, 

This  horror  of  great  darkness.    I  am  come 

Into  this  darkness  to  attain  the  light : 

To  gain  my  voice  I  make  myself  as  dumb  : 

That  I  may  see  I  close  my  outer  sight : 

So,  I  am  here.    My  brows  are  bent  in  prayer  : 

I  kneel  already  in  the  Gates  of  Dawn ; 

And  I  am  come,  albeit  unaware, 

To  the  deep  sanctuary  :   my  hope  is  drawn 

From  wells  profounder  than  the  very  sea. 

Yea,  I  am  come,  where  least  I  guessed  it  so, 

Into  the  very  Presence  of  the  Three 

That  Are  beyond  all  Gods.    And  now  I  know 

What  spiritual  Light  is  drawing  me 

Up  to  its  stooping  splendour.    In  my  soul 


524  ALEISTER  CROWLEY 

I  feel  the  Spring,  the  all-devouring  Dawn, 
Rush  with  my  Rising.    There,  beyond  the  goal, 
The  Veil  is  rent ! 

Yes  :   let  the  veil  be  drawn. 


The  Rose  and  the  Cross 

OUT  of  the  seething  cauldron  of  my  woes, 
Where  sweets  and  salt  and  bitterness  I  flung ; 
Where  charmed  music  gathered  from  my  tongue, 
And  where  I  chained  strange  archipelagoes 
Of  fallen  stars ;   where  fiery  passion  flows 
A  curious  bitumen  ;   where  among 
The  glowing  medley  moved  the  tune  unsung 
Of  perfect  love  :   thence  grew  the  Mystic  Rose 

Its  myriad  petals  of  divided  light ; 

Its  leaves  of  the  most  radiant  emerald  ; 
Its  heart  of  fire  like  rubies.    At  the  sight 

I  lifted  up  my  heart  to  God  and  called  : 
How  shall  I  pluck  this  dream  of  my  desire  ? 
And  lo  !   there  shaped  itself  the  Cross  of  Fire  ! 


EVELYN  UNDERBILL  (MRS.  STUART  MOORE) 

b.  1875 

Immanence 

I  COME  in  the  little  things, 
Saith  the  Lord  : 
Not  borne  on  morning  wings 
Of  majesty,  but  I  have  set  My  Feet 
Amidst  the  delicate  and  bladed  wheat 
That  springs  triumphant  in  the  furrowed  sod. 


EVELYN  UNDERBILL  525 

There  do  I  dwell,  in  weakness  and  in  power ; 

Not  broken  or  divided,  saith  our  God ! 

In  your  strait  garden  plot  I  come  to  flower : 

About  your  porch  My  Vine 

Meek,  fruitful,  doth  entwine  ; 

Waits,  at  the  threshold,  Love's  appointed  hour. 

I  come  in  the  little  things, 

Saith  the  Lord : 

Yea  !   on  the  glancing  wings 

Of  eager  birds,  the  softly  pattering  feet 

Of  furred  and  gentle  beasts,  I  come  to  meet 

Your  hard  and  wayward  heart.    In  brown  bright  eyes 

That  peep  from  out  the  brake,  I  stand  confest. 

On  every  nest 

Where  feathery  Patience  is  content  to  brood 

And  leaves  her  pleasure  for  the  high  emprize 

Of  motherhood — 

There  doth  My  Godhead  rest. 

I  come  in  the  little  things, 

Saith  the  Lord  : 

My  starry  wings 

I  do  forsake, 

Love's  highway  of  humility  to  take  : 

Meekly  I  fit  My  stature  to  your  need. 

In  beggar's  part 

About  your  gates  I  shall  not  cease  to  plead — 

As  man,  to  speak  with  man — 

Till  by  such  art 

I  shall  achieve  My  Immemorial  Plan, 

Pass  the  low  lintel  of  the  human  heart. 


526  EVELYN  UNDERHILL 

Introversion 

WHAT  do  you  seek  within,  O  Soul,  my  Brother  ? 
What  do  you  seek  within  ? 
I  seek  a  Life  that  shall  never  die, 
Some  haven  to  win 
From  mortality. 

What  do  you  find  within,  O  Soul,  my  Brother  ? 

What  do  you  find  within  ? 
I  find  great  quiet  where  no  noises  come. 

Without,  the  world's  din  : 

Silence  in  my  home. 

Whom  do  you  find  within,  O  Soul,  my  Brother  ? 

Whom  do  you  find  within  ? 
I  find  a  friend  that  in  secret  came  : 

His  scarred  hands  within 

He  shields  a  faint  flame.. 

What  would  you  do  within,  O  Soul,  my  Brother  ? 

What  would  you  do  within  ? 
Bar  door  and  window  that  none  may  see : 
That  alone  we  may  be 
(Alone  !  face  to  face, 
In  that  flame-lit  place  !) 
When  first  we  begin 
To  speak  one  with  another. 


EVELYN  UNDERBILL  527 

Uxbridge  Road 

THE  Western  Road  goes  streaming  out  to  seek  the 
cleanly  wild, 

It  pours  the  city's  dim  desires  towards  the  undefiled, 
It  sweeps  betwixt  the  huddled  homes  about  its  eddies 

grown 

To  smear  the  little  space  between  the  city  and  the  sown  : 
The  torments  of  that  seething  tide  who  is  there  that  can 

see  ? 
There 's  one  who  walked  with  starry  feet  the  western  road 

by  me  ! 

He  is  the  Drover  of  the  soul ;  he  leads  the  flock  of  men 
All  wistful  on  that  weary  track,  and  brings  them  back  again. 
The  dreaming  few,  the  slaving  crew,  the  motley  caste  of 

life— 

The  wastrel  and  artificer,  the  harlot  and  the  wife — 
They  may  not  rest,  for  ever  pressed  by  one  they  cannot 

see  : 
The  one  who  walked  with  starry  feet  the  western  road 

by  me. 

He  drives  them  east,  he  drives  them  west,  between  the 

dark  and  light; 
He  pastures  them  in  city  pens,  he  leads  them  home  at 

night. 
The  towery  trams,  the  threaded  trains,  like  shuttles  to 

and  fro 

To  weave  the  web  of  working  days  in  ceaseless  travel  go. 
How  harsh  the  woof,  how  long  the  weft  !  who  shall  the 

fabric  see  ? 
The  one  who  walked  with  starry  feet  the  western  road 

by  me ! 


528  EVELYN  UNDERBILL 

Throughout  the  living  joyful  year  at  lifeless  tasks  to  strive, 
And  scarcely  at  the  end  to  save  gentility  alive  ; 
The  villa  plot  to  sow  and  reap,  to  act  the  villa  lie, 
Beset  by  villa  fears  to  live,  midst  villa  dreams  to  die ; 
Ah,  who  can  know  the  dreary  woe  ?  and  who  the  splendour 


see 


The  one  who  walked  with  starry  feet  the  western  road 
by  me. 

Behold  !  he  lent  me  as  we  went  the  vision  of  the  seer ; 
Behold  !    I  saw  the  life  of  men,  the  life  of  God  shine 

clear. 

T  saw  the  hidden  Spirit's  thrust ;   I  saw  the  race  fulfil 
The  spiral  of  its  steep  ascent,  predestined  of  the  Will. 
Yet  not  unled,  but  shepherded  by  one  they  may  not  see — 
The  one  who  walked  with  starry  feet  the  western  road 

by  me  ! 


Regnum  Caelorum  Fim  Patitur 

WHEN  our  five-angled  spears,  that  pierced  the  world 
And  drew  its  life-blood,  faint  before  the  wall 
Which  hems  its  secret  splendour — when  we  fall, 
Lance  broken,  banner  furled, 
Before  that  calm  invincible  defence 
Whereon  our  folly  hurled 
The  piteous  armies  of  intelligence — 
Then,  often-times,  we  know 
How  conquering  mercy  to  the  battle  field 
Comes  through  the  darkness,  freely  to  bestow 
The  prize  for  which  we  fought 
Not  knowing  what  we  sought, 
And  salve  the  wounds  of  those  who  would  not  yield. 


EVELYN  UNDERBILL  529 

He  loves  the  valiant  foe  ;  he  comes  not  out  to  meet 

The  craven  soul  made  captive  of  its  fear  : 

Not  these  the  victories  that  to  him  are  sweet  1 

But  the  impetuous  soldiery  of  truth, 

And  knighthood  of  the  intellectual  quest, 

Who  ask  not  for  his  ruth 

Nor  would  desire  his  rest  : 

These  are  to  him  most  dear, 

And  shall  in  their  surrender  yet  prevail. 

Yea  !   at  the  end  of  unrewarded  days, 

By  swift  and  secret  ways 

As  on  a  sudden  moonbeam  shining  clear, 

Soft  through  the  night  shall  slide  upon  their  gaze 

The  thrice-defended  vision  of  the  Grail : 

And  when  his  peace  hath  triumphed,  these  shall  be 

The  flower  of  his  celestial  chivalry. 

And  did  you  think,  he  saith 

As  to  and  fro  he  goes  the  trenches  through, 

My  heart  impregnable,  that  you  must  bring 

The  ballisters  of  faith 

Their  burning  bolts  to  fling, 

And  all  the  cunning  intricate  device 

Of  human  wit, 

One  little  breach  to  make 

That  so  you  might  attain  to  enter  it  ? 

Nay,  on  the  other  side 

Love's  undefended  postern  is  set  wide  : 

But  thus  it  is  I  woo 

My  dearest  sons,  that  an  ignoble  ease 

Shall  never  please, 

Nor  any  smooth  and  open  way  entice. 

Armed  would  I  have  them  come 

Against  the  mighty  bastions  of  their  home ; 


530  EVELYN  UNDERHILL 

Out  of  high  failure  win 

Their  way  within, 

And  from  my  conquering  hand  their  birthright  take. 

Corpus  Christi 

COME,  dear  Heart ! 
The  fields  are  white  to  harvest :   come  and  see 
As  in  a  glass  the  timeless  mystery 
Of  love,  whereby  we  feed 
On  God,  our  bread  indeed. 
Torn  by  the  sickles,  see  him  share  the  smart 
Of  travailing  Creation  :    maimed,  despised, 
Yet  by  his  lovers  the  more  dearly  prized 
Because  for  us  he  lays  his  beauty  down — 
Last  toll  paid  by  Perfection  for  our  loss  ! 
Trace  on  these  fields  his  everlasting  Cross, 
And  o'er  the  stricken  sheaves  the  Immortal  Victim's  crown. 

From  far  horizons  came  a  Voice  that  said, 

'  Lo  !  from  the  hand  of  Death  take  thou  thy  daily  bread.' 

Then  I,  awakening,  saw 

A  splendour  burning  in  the  heart  of  things  : 

The  flame  of  living  love  which  lights  the  law 

Of  mystic  death  that  works  the  mystic  birth. 

I  knew  the  patient  passion  of  the  earth, 

Maternal,  everlasting,  whence  there  springs 

The  Bread  of  Angels  and  the  life  of  man. 

Now  in  each  blade 

I,  blind  no  longer,  see 

The  glory  of  God's  growth  :  know  it  to  be 

An  earnest  of  the  Immemorial  Plan. 

Yea,  I  have  understood 


EVELYN  UNDERBILL  531 

How  all  things  are  one  great  oblation  made : 

He  on  our  altars,  we  on  the  world's  rood. 

Even  as  this  corn, 

Earth-born,  • 

We  are  snatched  from  the  sod  ; 

Reaped,  ground  to  grist, 

Crushed  and  tormented  in  the  Mills  of  God, 

And  offered  at  Life's  hands,  a  living  Eucharist. 


ELLA  DIETZ 

Emanation 

OUT  of  the  depths  of  the  Infinite  Being  eternal, 
Out  of  the  cloud  more  bright  than  the  brightness 

of  sun, 

Out  of  the  inmost  the  essence  of  spirit  supernal, 
We  issued  as  one. 

First  essence  electric,  concentric,  revolving,  subduing, 
We  throbbed  through  the  ether,  a  part  of  the  infinite  germ, 
Dissolving,  resolving,  absorbing,  reforming,  renewing, 
The  endless  in  term. 

Through  forms  multifarious  onward  and  ever  advancing, 
Progressing  through  ether  from  molecule  to  planet  and  star, 
Forms  infinitesimal  revealed  by  the  sunbeam  while  dancing, 
Controlled  from  afar. 

Then  part  of  the  elements  swayed  by  invisible  forces, 
The  spirit  of  flame  interchangeably  water  and  air, 
And  matter  more  gross,  still  moulded  by  stars  in  their 
courses, 

To  forms  new  and  rare. 


532  ELLA  DIETZ 

Part  of  the  salt  of  the  sea — of  the  fathomless  ocean — 
Part  of  the  growth  of  the  earth,  and  the  light  hid  within, 
The  Boundless  and  Endless  revealed  in  each  varying  motion 
Unknown  yet  to  sin. 

The  breath  of  all  life,  harmonious,  ductile,  complying, 
Obedient  lapsed  in  the  force  of  the  Infinite  Will, 
Untiring,  unresting,  incessant,  unknowing,  undying, 
Love's  law  we  fulfil. 

Spirit  of  growth  in  the  rocks,  and  the  ferns,  and  the  mosses, 
Spirit  of  growth  in  the  trees,  and  the  grasses,  and  flowers, 
Rejoicing  in  life,  unconscious  of  changes  or  losses, 
Of  days  or  of  hours. 

Spirit  of  growth  in  the  bird  and  the  bee,  ever  tending 
To  form  more  complex  its  beauty  and  use  thus  combined, 
Adapted  perfection,  the  finite  and  infinite  blending, 
One  gleam  from  One  Mind. 

Thus  spirally  upward  we  come  from  the  depths  of  creation, 
The  man  and  the  woman — the  garden  of  Eden  have  found, 
And  joined  by  the  Lord  in  an  endless  and  holy  relation 
Ensphered  and  made  round. 

The  innermost  law  of  their  being  fulfilling,  obeying, 
The  King  and  the  Queen,  perfected,  companioned,  are 

crowned, 

The  Incomprehensible  thus  in  expression  conveying 
Its  ultimate  bound. 

Obedience  still  is  the  law  of  each  fresh  emanation, 

The  prayer  to  the  Father,  '  Not  my  will,  but  Thy  will  be 

done,' 
Then  deathless,  immortal,  we  pass  through  all  forms  of 

creation, 

The  twain  lost  in  One. 


ELLA  DIETZ  533 

The  King 's  Daughter 

The  Word,  the  Redeemed  is  such  as  needs  to  be  washed,  and 

cleansed,  and  clothed  upon. 

In  her  lives  the  Imrah,  the  Word  which  is  distilled  and  purified. 
The  feminine  Imrah,  or  seven  times  purified  words  of  El6hah  and 

of  Jehovah. 
It  is  a  quickening  Word,  which  comforts  in  affliction,  and  is  the 

reward  of  all  who  keep  Jehovah's  precepts. 

MRS.  BREWSTER  MACPHERSON. 

I  AM  beloved  of  the  Prince  of  the  garden  of  pleasure, 
I  am  beloved  ; 
I  am  his  pearl,  and  his  dove,  and  his  heart's  hidden  treasure, 

I  am  approved  ; 

To-day  he  has  given  his  love,  oh  !    his  love  without 
measure, 

Which  can  never  be  moved. 

He  has  called  me  '  Beloved  of  my  soul ',  and  my  heart 
beats,  repeating 

'  Beloved  of  my  soul ', 

And  my  blood  dances  swift  through  my  veins  in  a  musical 
beating ; 

The  twin  currents  roll, 

Pouring  forth  their  wild  love,  then  again  to  their  centre 
retreating 

Under  righteous  control. 

O  king  of  my  life's  hidden  spring  !    O  lord  of  my  being  ! 

Beloved  of  my  heart ; 

Our  lips  breathed  one  prayer,  and  our  souls,  in  a  sudden, 
agreeing, 

Knit,  joining  each  part 

Of  the  long-severed  Word  that  the  prophets  beheld  in 
their  seeing — 

Beloved  thou  art. 


534  ELLA  DIETZ 

The  long-severed  name  of  the  Lord  we  are  loving  and 
fearing ; 

Our  Sabbaths  of  rest 

Do  welcome  the  Son;    the  Redeemed  hail  the  Bride 
groom's  appearing — 

His  Name  ever  blest ; 

The  Word  in  our  hearts  spoken  now,  in  soft  accents 
endearing, 

With  joy  is  confest. 

Yea !    Imrah — the  Word,  the  Redeemed,  the  Bride  of  the 
Morning, 

The  joy  of  the  earth ; 

O  Imrah,  beloved,  whom  the  world  had  outcast  in  its 
scorning, 

Rejoice  in  thy  birth; 

Ten  thousands  shall  bless  thee  and  bring  thee  thy  gems 
of  adorning, 

And  comfort  thy  dearth. 


HAROLD  MONRO 

b.  1879 

God 

ONCE,  long  before  the  birth  of  time,  a  storm    ' 
Of  white  desire,  by  its  own  ardour  hurled, 
Flashed  out  of  infinite  Desire,  took  form. 
Strove,  won,  survived  :   and  God  became  the  world. 

Next,  some  internal  force  began  to  move  ' 

Within  the  bosom  of  that  latest  earth : 

The  spirit  of  an  elemental  love 

Stirred  outward  from  itself,  and  God  was  birth. 


HAROLD  MONRO  535 

Then  outward,  upward,  with  heroic  thew, 

Savage  from  young  and  bursting  blood  of  life, 

Desire  took  form,  and  conquered,  and  anew 

Strove,  conquered,  and  took  form  :   and  God  was  strife. 

Thus,  like  a  comet,  fiery  flight  on  flight ; 
Flash  upon  flash,  and  purple  morn  on  morn  : 
But  always  out  of  agony — delight ; 
And  out  of  death — God  evermore  reborn, 

Till,  waxing  fair  and  subtle  and  supreme, 
Desiring  his  own  spirit  to  possess, 
Man  of  the  bright  eyes  and  the  ardent  dream 
Saw  paradise,  and  God  was  consciousness. 

He  is  that  one  Desire,  that  life,  that  breath,    ' 
That  Soul  which,  with  infinity  of  pain, 
Passes  through  revelation  and  through  death 
Onward  and  upward  to  itself  again. 

Out  of  the  lives  of  heroes  and  their  deeds, 
Out  of  the  miracle  of  human  thought, 
Out  of  the  songs  of  singers,  God  proceeds ; 
And  of  the  soul  of  them  his  Soul  is  wrought. 

Nothing  is  lost :   all  that  is  dreamed  or  done  • 
Passes  unaltered  the  eternal  way, 
Immerging  in  the  everlasting  One, 
Who  was  the  dayspring  and  who  is  the, day. 


536 

^      ALFRED  NOYES 

b.  1880 
The  Loom  of  Years 

IN  the  light  of  the  silent  stars  that  shine  on  the  struggling 
sea, 
In  the  weary  cry  of  the  wind  and  the  whisper  of  flower 

and  tree, 

Under  the  breath  of  laughter,  deep  in  the  tide  of  tears, 
I  hear  the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that  weaves  the  Web  of 
Years. 

The  leaves  of  the  winter  wither  and  sink  in  the  forest 

mould 
To  colour  the  flowers  of  April  with  purple  and  white  and 

gold: 

Light  and  scent  and  music  die  and  are  born  again 
In  the  heart  of  a  grey-haired  woman  who  wakes  in  a  world 

of  pain. 

The  hound,  the  fawn,  and  the  hawk,  and  the  doves  that 

croon  and  coo, 
We  are  all  one  woof  of  the  weaving  and  the  one  warp 

threads  us  through, 
One  flying  cloud  on  the  shuttle  that  carries  our  hopes 

and  fears 
As  it  goes  thro'   the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that  weaves 

the  Web  of  Years. 

The  green  uncrumpling  fern  and  the  rustling  dew- 
drenched  rose 

Pass  with  our  hearts  to  the  Silence  where  the  wings  of 
music  close, 

Pass  and  pass  to  the  Timeless  that  never  a  moment  mars, 

Pass  and  pass  to  the  Darkness  that  made  the  suns  and  stars. 


ALFRED  NOYES  537 

Has  the  soul  gone  out  in  the  Darkness  ?    Is  the  dust  sealed 

from  sight  ? 
Ah,  hush,  for  the  woof  of  the  ages  returns  thro'  the  warp 

of  the  night ! 

Never  that  shuttle  loses  one  thread  of  our  hopes  and  fears, 
As  it  comes  thro'  the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that  weaves 

the  Web  of  Years. 

O,  woven  in  one  wide  Loom  thro'  the  throbbing  weft  of 

the  whole, 

One  in  spirit  and  flesh,  one  in  body  and  soul, 
Tho'  the  leaf  were  alone  in  its  falling,  the  bird  in  its  hour 

to  die, 
The  heart  in  its  muffled  anguish,  the  sea  in  its  mournful 

cry, 

One  with  the  flower  of  a  day,  one  with  the  withered  moon, 
One  with  the  granite  mountains  that  melt  into  the  noon, 
One  with  the  dream  that  triumphs  beyond  the  light  of 

the  spheres, 
We  come  from  the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that  weaves  the 

Web  of  Years. 


Art,  the  Herald 

1  The  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness ' 

BEYOND  ;    beyond  ;    and  yet  again  beyond  ! 
What 'went  ye  out  to  seek,  oh  foolish-fond? 
Is  not  the  heart  of  all  things  here  and  now  ? 
Is  not  the  circle  infinite,  and  the  centre 
Everywhere,  if  ye  would  but  hear  and  enter  ? 
Come;    the  porch  bends  and  the  great  pillars  bow 


538  ALFRED  NOYES 

Come  ;   come  and  see  the  secret  of  the  sun  ; 
The  sorrow  that  holds  the  warring  worlds  in  one ; 

The  pain  that  holds  Eternity  in  an  hour  ; 
One  God  in  every  seed  self-sacrificed, 
One  star-eyed,  star-crowned  universal  Christ, 

Re-crucified  in  every  wayside  flower. 

The  Paradox 

'  I  Am  that  I  Am ' 
I 

AjL  that  is  broken  shall  be  mended ; 
All  that  is  lost  shall  be  found  ; 
I  will  bind  up  every  wound 
When  that  which  is  begun  shall  be  ended. 
Not  peace  I  brought  among  you  but  a  sword 

To  divide  the  night  from  the  day, 
When  I  sent  My  worlds  forth  in  their  battle-array 
To  die  and  to  live, 
To  give  and  to  receive, 
Saith  the  Lord. 

ii 

Of  old  time  they  said  none  is  good  save  our  God  ; 
But  ye  that  have  seen  how  the  ages  have  shrunk  from  my 

rod, 
And  how  red  is  the  wine-press  wherein  at  my  bidding 

they  trod, 
Have  answered  and  said  that  with  Eden  I  fashioned  the 

snake, 
That  I  mould  you  of  clay  for  a  moment,  then  mar  you 

and  break, 

And  there  is  none  evil  but  I,  the  supreme  Evil,  God. 
Lo,  I  say  unto  both,  I  am  neither  ; 
But  greater  than  either  : 


ALFRED  NOYES  539 

For  meeting  and  mingling  in  Me  they  become  neither 

evil  nor  good ; 
Their  cycle  is  rounded,  they  know  neither  hunger  nor 

food, 
They  need  neither  sickle  nor  seed-time,  nor  root  nor  fruit, 

They  are  ultimate,  infinite,  absolute. 
Therefore  I  say  unto  all  that  have  sinned, 
East  and  West  and  South  and  North 
The  wings  of  my  measureless  love  go  forth 
To  cover  you  all :  they  are  free  as  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

in 
Consider  the  troubled  waters  of  the  sea 

Which  never  rest ; 
As  the  wandering  waves  are  ye  ; 

Yet  assuaged  and  appeased  and  forgiven, 

As  the  seas  are  gathered  together  under  the  infinite 

glory  of  heaven, 
I  gather  you  all  to  my  breast. 

But  the  sins  and  the  creeds  and  the  sorrows  that  trouble 
the  sea 

Relapse  and  subside, 
Chiming  like  chords  in  a  world-wide  symphony 

As  they  cease  to  chide  ; 

For  they  break  and  they  are  broken  of  sound  and  hue, 
And  they  meet  and  they  murmur  and  they  mingle  anew, 
Interweaving,  intervolving,  like  waves :  they  have  no  stay : 
They  are  all  made  as  one  with  the  deep,  when  they  sink 
and  are  vanished  away  ; 

Yea,  all  is  toned  at  a  turn  of  the  tide 
To  a  calm  and  golden  harmony ; 
But  I — shall  I  wonder  or  greatly  care, 

For  their  depth  or  their  height  ? 
Shall  it  be  more  than  a  song  in  my  sight 
How  many  wandering  waves  there  were 


540  ALFRED  NOYES 

Or  how  many  colours  and  changes  of  light  ? 

It  is  your  eyes  that  see 

And  take  heed  of  these  things  :   they  were  fashioned 
for  you,  not  for  Me. 

IV 

With  the  stars  and  the  clouds  I  have  clothed  Myself  here 

for  your  eyes 
To  behold  That  which  Is.    I  have  set  forth  the  strength 

of  the  skies 
As  one  draweth  a  picture  before  you  to  make  your  hearts 

wise  ; 

That  the  infinite  souls  I  have  fashioned  may  know  as  I 
know, 

Visibly  revealed 
In  the  flowers  of  the  field, 
Yea,  declared  by  the  stars  in  their  courses,  the  tides  in 

their  flow, 

And  the  clash  of  the  world's  wide  battle  as  it  sways  to 
and  fro, 

Flashing  forth  as  a  flame 
The  unnameable  Name, 
The  ineffable  Word, 
I  am  the  Lord. 

v 
I  am  the  End  to  which  the  whole  world  strives : 

Therefore  are  ye  girdled  with  a  wild  desire  and  shod 
With  sorrow  ;   for  among  you  all  no  soul 
Shall  ever  cease  or  sleep  or  reach  its  goal 
Of  union  and  communion  with  the  Whole, 

Or  rest  content  with  less  than  being  God. 
Still,  as  unending  asymptotes,  your  lives 
In  all  their  myriad  wandering  ways 
Approach  Me  with  the  progress  of  the  golden  days ; 
Approach  Me  ;   for  my  love  contrives 


ALFRED  NOYES  541 

That  ye  should  have  the  glory  of  this 

For  ever  ;   yea,  that  life  should  blend 

With  life  and  only  vanish  away 

From  day  to  wider  wealthier  day, 
Like  still  increasing  spheres  of  light  that  melt  and  merge 

in  wider  spheres 

Even  as  the  infinite  years  of  the  past  melt  in  the  infinite 
future  years. 

Each  new  delight  of  sense, 

Each  hope,  each  love,  each  fear, 

Widens,  relumes  and  recreates  each  sphere, 
From  a  new  ring  and  nimbus  of  pre-eminence. 
I  am  the  Sphere  without  circumference  : 
I  only  and  for  ever  comprehend 
All  others  that  within  me  meet  and  blend. 

Death  is  but  the  blinding  kiss 

Of  two  finite  infinities ; 

Two  finite  infinite  orbs 

The  splendour  of  the  greater  of  which  absorbs 
The  less,  though  both  like  Love  have  no  beginning  and 
no  end. 

VI 

Therefore  is  Love's  own  breath 
Like  Knowledge,  a  continual  death ; 
And  all  his  laughter  and  kisses  and  tears, 

And  woven  wiles  of  peace  and  strife, 
That  ever  widen  thus  your  temporal  spheres, 
Are  making  of  the  memory  of  your  former  years 

A  very  death  in  life. 

VII 

I  am  that  I  am  ; 
Ye  are  evil  and  good  ; 

With  colour  and  glory  and  story  and  song  ye  are  fed  as 
with  food  : 


542  ALFRED  NOYES 

The  cold  and  the  heat, 

The  bitter  and  the  sweet, 
The  calm  and  the  tempest  fulfil  my  Word ; 
Yet  will  ye  complain  of  my  two-edged  sword 
That  has  fashioned  the  finite  and  mortal  and  given  you 
the  sweetness  of  strife, 

The  blackness  and  whiteness, 

The  darkness  and  brightness, 

Which  sever  your  souls  from  the  formless  and  void  and 
hold  you  fast-fettered  to  life  ? 

VIII 

Behold  now,  is  Life  not  good  ? 
Yea,  is  it  not  also  much  more  than  the  food, 
More  than  the  raiment,  more  than  the  breath  ? 

Yet  Strife  is  its  name  ! 
Say,  which  will  ye  cast  out  first  from  the  furnace,  the  fuel 

or  the  flame  ? 
Would  ye  all  be  as  I  am  ;  and  know  neither  evil  nor  good  ; 

neither  life  ;   neither  death  ; 

Or  mix  with  the  void  and  the  formless  till  all  were  as  one 
and  the  same  ? 

IX 

I  am  that  I  am  ;   the  Container  of  all  things  :  kneel,  lift 

up  your  hands 
To  the  high  Consummation  of  good  and  of  evil  which 

none  understands ; 
The  divine  Paradox,  the  ineffable  Word,  in  whose  light 

the  poor  souls  that  ye  trod 

Underfoot  as  too  vile  for  their  fellows  are  at  terrible 
union  with  God  ! 

Am  I  not  over  both  evil  and  good, 
The  righteous  man  and  the  shedder  of  blood  ? 
Shall  I  save  or  slay  ? 


ALFRED  NOYES  543 

I  am  neither  the  night  nor  the  day, 

Saith  the  Lord. 

Judge  not,  oh  ye  that  are  round  my  footstool   judge  not, 
ere  the  hour  be  born 

That  shall  laugh  you  also  to  scorn. 

x 

Ah,  yet  I  say  unto  all  that  have  sinned, 
East  and  West  and  South  and  North 
The  wings  of  my  measureless  love  go  forth 
To  cover  you  all :  they  are  free  as  the  wings  of  the 
wind. 

XI 

But  one  thing  is  needful ;  and  ye  shall  be  true 

To  yourselves  and  the  goal  and  the  God  that  ye  seek  ; 

Yea,  the  day  and  the  night  shall  requite  it  to  you 
If  ye  love  one  another,  if  your  love  be  not  weak. 

XII 

Since  I  sent  out  my  worlds  in  their  battle-array 

To  die  and  to  live, 

To  give  and  to  receive, 

Not  peace,  not  peace,  I  have  brought  among  you  but 
a  sword, 

To  divide  the  night  from  the  day, 

Saith  the  Lord ; 
Yet  all  that  is  broken  shall  be  mended, 

And  all  that  is  lost  shall  be  found, 

I  will  bind  up  every  wound, 
When  that  which  is  begun  shall  be  ended. 


544  ALFRED  NOYES 

Song 

From  '  The  Forest  of  Wild  Thyme  ' 

WHAT  is  there  hid  in  the  heart  of  a  rose, 
Mother-mine  ? 

Ah,  who  knows,  who  knows,  who  knows  ? 
A  man  that  died  on  a  lonely  hill 
Mav  tell  you,  perhaps,  but  none  other  will, 
Little  child. 

What  does  it  take  to  make  a  rose, 

Mother-mine  ? 

The  God  that  died  to  make  it  knows 
It  takes  the  world's  eternal  wars, 
It  takes  the  moon  and  all  the  stars, 
It  takes  the  might  of  heaven  and  hell 
And  the  everlasting  Love  as  well, 

Little  child. 


The  Two  Worlds 

'"THHIS  outer  world  is  but  the  pictured  scroll 

JL    Of  worlds  within  the  soul, 
A  coloured  chart,  a  blazoned  missal-book 

Whereon  who  rightly  look 
May  spell  the  splendours  with  their  mortal  eyes 

And  steer  to  Paradise. 

O,  well  for  him  that  knows  and  early  knows 

In  his  own  soul  the  rose 
Secretly  burgeons,  of  this  earthly  flower 

The  heavenly  paramour  : 


ALFRED  NOYES  545 

And  all  these  fairy  dreams  of  green-wood  fern, 

These  waves  that  break  and  yearn, 
Shadows  and  hieroglyphs,  hills,  clouds  and  seas, 

Faces  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Terrestrial  picture-parables,  relate 

Each  to  its  heavenly  mate. 

O,  well  for  him  that  finds  in  sky  and  sea 

This  two-fold  mystery, 
And  loses  not  (as  painfully  he  spells 

The  fine-spun  syllables) 
The  cadences,  the  burning  inner  gleam, 

The  poet's  heavenly  dream. 

Well  for  the  poet  if  this  earthly  chart 

Be  printed  in  his  heart, 
When  to  his  world  of  spirit  woods  and  seas 

With  eager  face  he  flees 
And  treads  the  untrodden  fields  of  unknown  flowers 

And  threads  the  angelic  bowers, 
And  hears  that  unheard  nightingale  whose  moan 

Trembles  within  his  own, 
And  lovers  murmuring  in  the  leafy  lanes 

Of  his  own  joys  and  pains. 

For  though  he  voyages  further  than  the  flight 

Of  earthly  day  and  night, 
Traversing  to  the  sky's  remotest  ends 

A  world  that  he  transcends, 
Safe,  he  shall  hear  the  hidden  breakers  roar 

Against  the  mystic  shore  ; 
Shall  roam  the  yellow  sands  where  sirens  bare 

Their  breasts  and  wind  their  hair  ; 
Shall  with  their  perfumed  tresses  blind  his  eyes, 

And  still  possess  the  skies. 

MYST.  T 


546  ALFRED  NOYES 

He,  where  the  deep  unearthly  jungles  are, 

Beneath  his  Eastern  star 
Shall  pass  the  tawny  lion  in  his  den 

And  cross  the  quaking  fen. 
He  learnt  his  path  (and  treads  it  undefiled) 

When,  as  a  little  child, 
He  bent  his  head  with  long  and  loving  looks 

O'er  earthly  picture-books. 
His  earthly  love  nestles  against  his  side, 

His  young  celestial  guide. 


RACHEL  ANNAND  TAYLOR 
The  Immortal  Hour 

STILL  as  great  waters  lying  in  the  West, 
So  is  my  spirit  still. 
I  lay  my  folded  hands  within  Thy  bre'ast, 

My  will  within  Thy  will. 
O  Fortune,  idle  pedlar,  pass  me  by. 
O  Death,  keep  far  from  me  who  cannot  die. 
The  passion-flowers  are  lacing  o'er  the  sill 
Of  my  low  door. — As  dews  their  sweetness  fill, 

So  do  I  rest  in  Thee. 

It  is  mine  hour.    Let  none  set  foot  therein. 
It  is  mine  hour  unflawed  of  pain  or  sin. 
'Tis  laid  and  steeped  in  silence,  till  it  be 
A  solemn  dazzling  crystal,  to  outlast 
And  storm  the  eyes  of  poets  when  long-past 
Is  all  the  changing  dream  of  Thee  and  Me. 


RACHEL  ANNAND  TAYLOR  547 

The  Night  Obscure  of  the  Soul 

WHEN  the  Soul  travails  in  her  Night  Obscure, 
The  nadir  of  her  desperate  defeat, 
What  heavenly  dream  shall  help  her  to  endure, 

What  naming  Wisdom  be  her  Paraclete  ? 
No  curious  Metaphysic  can  withhold 

The  heart  from  that  mandragora  she  craves : — 
Unreasonable,  old  as  Earth  is  old, 

The  blind  ecstatic  miracle  that  saves. 
Far  off  the  pagan  trumpeters  of  Pride 

Call  to  the  blood. — Love  moans. — Some  fiery  fashion 
Of  rapture  like  the  anguish  of  the  bride 

Leaps  from  the  dark  perfection  of  the  Passion, 
Crying  :    '  O  beautiful  God,  still  torture  me, 
For  if  thou  slay  me,  I  will  trust  in  Thee.' 


The  Question 

I  SAW  the  Son  of  God  go  by 
Crowned  with  the  crown  of  Thorn. 
*  Was  It  not  finished,  Lord  ?  '  I  said, 

*  And  all  the  anguish  borne  ?  ' 

He  turned  on  me  His  awful  eyes  : 

*  Hast  thou  not  understood  ? 
Lo  !   Every  soul  is  Calvary, 

And  every  sin  a  Rood.' 


548 

ANONYMOUS 
At  the  Feet  of  Ists 

HER  feet  are  set  in  darkness — at  Her  feet 
We  kneel,  for  She  is  Mother  of  us  all — 
A  mighty  Mother,  with  all  love  replete  ; 
We,  groping  'midst  the  shadow's  dusky  pall, 
Ask  not  to  see  the  upper  vision  bright, 
Enough  for  us  Her  feet  shine  clear — all  virgin  white 

Her  wings  are  tipped  with  golden  light,  but  we 

Ken  but  the  shadow  at  Her  pinions'  base — 

We  kneel  before  Her  feet,  we  cannot  see 

The  glory  that  illuminates  Her  face, 

For  he  who  t'wards  the  vision  gazeth  up 

Finds  first  the  stricken  breast — the  sacrificial  cup  ! 

Her  feet  gleam  in  the  darkness — at  Her  feet 
We  lay  the  price  of  those  twin  pearls  of  Heav'n — 
All  that  man  hath — an  offering  incomplete 
Is  his  who  yet  his  best  would  leave  ungiv'n  ; 
And  as  She  stoops  Her  guerdon  to  bestow, 
His  life's  blood  in  Her  cup,  outstretched  there,  needs 
must  flow  ! 

Her  wings  are  in  the  shadow — Lo  !   they  cast 

That  shadow  e'en  o'er  Heav'n's  own  light,  we  cry, 

For  in  the  darkness,  terrible  and  vast, 

She  spreads  the  wing  to  which  the  soul  must  hie  ; 

But,  to  that  shelter  led,  our  upward  gaze 

Beholds  Her  pinions  formed  of  Light's  celestial  rays ! 


ANONYMOUS  549 

Her  feet  are  in  the  darkness,  but  Her  face 
Is  in  high  Heav'n — all  Truth  inhabits  there  ; 
All  Knowledge  and  all  Peace,  and  perfect  grace, 
And  in  the  wonder  of  Her  joy  they  share 
Who,  blindly  clinging  to  Her  feet  erstwhile, 
Obtained  the  priceless  gift — the  vision  of  Her  smile. 


A  Ballade  of  the  Centre 

WHEN  all  the  shores  of  knowledge  fade 
Beyond  the  realms  of  night  and  day, 
When  the  quick  stir  of  thought  is  stayed 
And,  as  a  dream  of  yesterday, 
The  bonds  of  striving  fall  away  : 
There  dawns  sometimes  a  point  of  fire 

Burning  the  utter  dark,  that  may 
Fulfil  our  desperate  desire. 

Into  the  darkness,  unafraid, 

Wherein  soft  hands  of  silence  lay 
Their  veil  of  peace  upon  the  blade 

Of  too  bright  thought,  we  take  our  way. 

In  changing  of  desire  we  pay 
Whatever  price  the  gods  require, 

Knowing  the  end  is  theirs — and  they 
Fulfil  our  desperate  desire. 

Upon  the  stillness  we  have  made 
Between  our  working  and  our  play 

A  deeper  stillness  yet  is  laid. 

Like  some  white  bird  above  the  sway 


550  ANONYMOUS 

Of  summer  waves  within  the  bay 
Peace  lights  upon  us  ere  we  tire, 

And  does  (yet  how,  we  cannot  say) 
Fulfil  our  desperate  desire. 

Envoi 
God  of  the  world,  to  Whom  we  pray, 

Thou  Inmost  God  to  Whom  aspire 
All  hopes  that  Thou  wilt  not  betray — 

Fulfil  our  desperate  desire  ! 


JOHN  MASEFIELD 

The  Ballad  of  Sir  Bon 

WOULD  I  could  win  some  quiet  and  rest,  and  a  little 
ease, 
In  the  cool  grey  hush  of  the  dusk,  in  the  dim  green  place 

of  the  trees, 

Where  the  birds  are  singing,  singing,  singing,  crying  aloud 
The  song  of  the  red,  red  rose  that  blossoms  beyond  the 
seas. 


Would  I  could  see  it,  the  rose,  when  the  light  begins  to 

fail, 
And  a  lone  white  star  in  the  West  is  glimmering  on  the 

mail ; 
The  red,  red  passionate  rose  of  the  sacred  blood  of  the 

Christ, 
In  the  shining  chalice  of  God,  the   cup   of   the    Holy 

Grail. 


JOHN  MASEFIELD  551 

The  dusk  comes  gathering  grey,  and  the  darkness  dims 

the  West, 

The  oxen  low  to  the  byre,  and  all  bells  ring  to  rest ; 
But  I  ride  over  the  moors,  for  the  dusk  still  bides  and  waits, 
That  brims  my  soul  with  the  glow  of  the  rose  that  ends 

the  Quest. 

My  horse  is  spavined  and  ribbed,  and  his  bones  come 

through  his  hide, 
My  sword  is  rotten  with  rust,  but  I  shake  the  reins  and 

ride, 
For  the  bright  white  birds  of  God  that  nest  in  the  rose 

have  called, 
And  never  a  township  now  is  a  town  where  I  can  bide. 

It  will  happen  at  last,  at  dusk,  as  my  horse  limps  down  the 

fell, 

A  star  will  glow  like  a  note  God  strikes  on  a  silver  bell, 
And  the  bright  white  birds  of  God  will  carry  my  soul 

to  Christ, 
And  the  sight  of  the  Rose,  the  Rose,  will  pay  for  the 

years  of  hell. 

The  Seekers 

TJ'RIENDS  and  loves  we  have  none,  nor  wealth  nor 
1    blessed  abode, 

But  the  hope  of  the  City  of  God  at  the  other  end  of  the 
road. 

Not  for  us  are  content,  and  quiet,  and  peace  of  mind, 
For  we  go  seeking  a  city  that  we  shall  never  find. 

There  is  no  solace  on  earth  for  us — for  such  as  we — 
Who  search  for  a  hidden  city  that  we  shall  never  see. 


552  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Only  the  road  and  the  dawn,  the  sun,  the  wind,  and  the 

rain, 
And  the  watch-fire  under  stars,  and  sleep,  and  the  road 

again. 

We  seek  the  City  of  God,  and  the  haunt  where  beauty 

dwells, 
And  we  find  the  noisy  mart  and  the  sound  of  burial  bells. 

Never  the  golden  city,  where  radiant  people  meet, 
But  the  dolorous  town  where  mourners  are  going  about 
the  street. 

We  travel  the  dusty  road  till  the  light  of  the  day  is  dim, 
And  sunset  shows  us  spires  away  on  the  world's  rim. 

We  travel  from  dawn  to  dusk,  till  the  day  is  past  and  by, 
Seeking  the  Holy  City  beyond  the  rim  of  the  sky. 

Friends  and  loves  we  have  none,  nor  wealth  nor  blest 

abode, 
But  the  hope  of  the  City  of  God  at  the  other  end  of  the 

road. 


From  'The  Everlasting  Mercy' 

I  DID  not  think,  I  did  not  strive, 
The  deep  peace  burnt  my  me  alive  ; 
The  bolted  door  had  broken  in, 
I  knew  that  I  had  done  with  sin. 
I  knew  that  Christ  had  given  me  birth 
To  brother  all  the  souls  on  earth, 
And  every  bird  and  every  beast 
Should  share  the  crumbs  broke  at  the  feast. 


JOHN  MASEFIELD  553 

0  glory  of  the  lighted  mind. 

How  dead  I'd  been,  how  dumb,  how  blind. 
The  station  brook,  to  my  new  eyes, 
Was  babbling  out  of  Paradise, 
The  waters  rushing  from  the  rain 
Were  singing  Christ  has  risen  again. 

1  thought  all  earthly  creatures  knelt 
From  rapture  of  the  joy  I  felt. 

The  narrow  station-wall's  brick  ledge, 
The  wild  hop  withering  in  the  hedge, 
The  lights  in  huntsman's  upper  story 
Were  parts  of  an  eternal  glory, 
Were  God's  eternal  garden  flowers. 
I  stood  in  bliss  at  this  for  hours. 

O  glory  of  the  lighted  soul. 
The  dawn  came  up  on  Bradlow  Knoll, 
The  dawn  with  glittering  on  the  grasses, 
The  dawn  which  pass  and  never  passes. 

4  It 's  dawn,'  I  said,  '  And  chimney  's  smoking, 
And  all  the  blessed  fields  are  soaking. 
It 's  dawn,  and  there  's  an  engine  shunting  ; 
And  hounds,  for  huntsman's  going  hunting. 
It 's  dawn,  and  I  must  wander  north 
Along  the  road  Christ  led  me  forth.'  .  .  . 

O  wet  red  swathe  of  earth  laid  bare, 
O  truth,  O  strength,  O  gleaming  share, 
O  patient  eyes  that  watch  the  goal, 
O  ploughman  of  the  sinner's  soul. 
O  Jesus,  drive  the  coulter  deep 
To  plough  my  living  man  from  sleep. 

T3 


554  J°HN  MASEFIELD 

Slow  up  the  hill  the  plough  team  plod, 

Old  Callow  at  the  task  of  God, 

Helped  by  man's  wit,  helped  by  the  brute 

Turning  a  stubborn  clay  to  fruit, 

Hid  eyes  for  ever  on  some  sign 

To  help  him  plough  a  perfect  line. 

At  top  of  rise  the  plough  team  stopped, 

The  fore-horse  bent  his  head  and  cropped  ; 

Then  the  chains  chack,  the  brasses  jingle, 

The  lean  reins  gather  through  the  cringle, 

The  figures  move  against  the  sky, 

The  clay  wave  breaks  as  they  go  by. 

I  kneeled  there  in  the  muddy  fallow, 

I  knew  that  Christ  was  there  with  Callow, 

That  Christ  was  standing  there  with  me, 

That  Christ  had  taught  me  what  to  be, 

That  I  should  plough,  and  as  I  ploughed 

My  Saviour  Christ  would  sing  aloud, 

And  as  I  drove  the  clods  apart 

Christ  would  be  ploughing  in  my  heart, 

Through  rest-harrow  and  bitter  roots, 

Through  all  my  bad  life's  rotten  fruits. 

O  Christ  who  holds  the  open  gate, 

O  Christ  who  drives  the  furrow  straight, 

O  Christ,  the  plough,  O  Christ,  the  laughter 

Of  holy  white  birds  flying  after, 

Lo,  all  my  heart's  field  red  and  torn, 

And  Thou  wilt  bring  the  young  green  corn, 

The  young  green  corn  divinely  springing, 

The  young  green  corn  forever  singing ; 

And  when  the  field  is  fresh  and  fair 

Thy  blessed  feet  shall  glitter  there, 

And  we  will  walk  the  weeded  field, 

And  tell  the  golden  harvest's  yield, 


B 


JOHN  MASEFIELD  555 

The  corn  that  makes  the  holy  bread 
By  which  the  soul  of  man  is  fed, 
The  holy  bread,  the  food  unpriced, 
Thy  everlasting  mercy,  Christ. 

MICHAEL  FIELD 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream 

UT  so  deep  the  wild-bee  hummeth, 

And  so  still  the  glow-worm  glows, 
That  we  know  a  Saviour  cometh, 
And  we  lay  our  hearts  with  those — 

All  the  mysteries  earth  strives  with  through  the  June 
nights  and  the  rose. 

Strange  the  joy  that  sets  us  weeping — 
Holy  John,  thy  Feast  is  come  ! 
Yea,  we  feel  a  Babe  is  leaping 
In  the  womb  where  he  is  dumb 

To  the  song  that  God's  own  Mother  sings  so  loud  to 
Christendom. 

High  that  singing,  high  and  humble  ! 

Lo,  our  Queen  is  taking  rule  : 

Faint  midsummer  thunders  rumble, 

And  gold  lilies  light  the  pool, 

While  the  generations  whisper  that  a  Queen  is  taking  rule. 

'Where  the  Blessed  Feet  Have  Trod' 

NOT  alone  in  Palestine  those  blessed  Feet  have  trod, 
For  I  catch  their  print, 
I  have  seen  their  dint 
On  a  plot  of  chalky  ground, 

Little  villas  dotted  round  ; 


556  MICHAEL  FIELD 

On  a  sea-worn  waste, 

Where  a  priest,  in  haste, 

Passeth  with  the  Blessed  Sacrament  to  one  dying,  frail, 

Through  the  yarrow,  past  the  tamarisk,  and  the  plaited 

snail : 
Bright  upon  the  grass  I  see 

Bleeding  Feet  of  Calvary — 
And  I  worship,  and  I  clasp  them  round  ! 
On  this  bit  of  chalky,  English  ground, 
Jesu,  Thou  art  found  :  my  God  I  hail, 

My  Lord,  my  God  ! 


LASCELLES  ABERCROMBIE 

b.  1881 

Emblems  of  Love 

She 

ONLY  to  be  twin  elements  of  joy 
In  this  extravagance  of  Being,  Love, 
Were  our  divided  natures  shaped  in  twain  ; 
And  to  this  hour  the  whole  world  must  consent. 
Is  it  not  very  marvellous,  our  lives 
Can  only  come  to  this  out  of  a  long 
Strange  sundering,  with  the  years  of  the  world  between  us  ? 

He 

Shall  life  do  more  than  God  ?   for  hath  not  God 
Striven  with  himself,  when  into  known  delight 
His  unaccomplisht  joy  he  would  put  forth, — 
This  mystery  of  a  world  sign  of  his  striving  ? 
Else  wherefore  this,  a  thing  to  break  the  mind 
With  labouring  in  the  wonder  of  it,  that  here 
Being — the  world  and  we — is  suffered  to  be  ! — 


LASCELLES  ABERCROMBIE  557 

But,  lying  on  thy  breast  one  notable  day, 

Sudden  exceeding  agony  of  love 

Made  my  mind  a  trance  of  infinite  knowledge. 

I  was  not :  yet  I  saw  the  will  of  God 

As  light  unfashion'd,  unendurable  flame, 

Interminable,  not  to  be  supposed  ; 

And  there  was  no  more  creature  except  light, — 

The  dreadful  burning  of  the  lonely  God's 

Unutter'd  joy.    And  then,  past  telling,  came 

Shuddering  and  division  in  the  light : 

Therein,  like  trembling,  was  desire  to  know 

Its  own  perfect  beauty  ;  and  it  became 

A  cloven  fire,  a  double  flaming,  each 

Adorable  to  each  ;   against  itself 

Waging  a  burning  love,  which  was  the  world ; — 

A  moment  satisfied  in  that  love-strife 

I  knew  the  world  ! — And  when  I  fell  from  there, 

Then  knew  I  also  what  this  life  would  do 

In  being  twain, — in  being  man  and  woman  ! 

For  it  would  do  even  as  its  endless  Master, 

Making  the  world,  had  done  ;  yea,  with  itself 

Would  strive,  and  for  the  strife  would  into  sex 

Be  cloven,  double  burning,  made  thereby 

Desirable  to  itself.    Contrived  joy 

Is  sex  in  life  ;   and  by  no  other  thing 

Than  by  a  perfect  sundering,  could  life 

Change  the  dark  stream  of  unappointed  joy 

To  perfect  praise  of  itself,  the  glee  that  loves 

And  worships  its  own  Being.    This  is  ours ! 

Yet  only  for  that  we  have  been  so  long 

Sundered  desire  :  thence  is  our  life  all  praise. — 

But  we,  well  knowing  by  our  strength  of  joy 

There  is  no  sundering  more,  how  far  we  love 

From  those  sad  lives  that  know  a  half-love  only, 


558  LASCELLES  ABERCROMBIE 

Alone  thereby  knowing  themselves  for  ever 
Sealed  in  division  of  love,  and  therefore  made 
To  pour  their  strength  always  into  their  love's 
Fierceness,  as  green  wood  bleeds  its  hissing  sap 
Into  red  heat  of  a  fire  !    Not  so  do  we  : 
The  cloven  anger,  life,  hath  left  to  wage 
Its  flame  against  itself,  here  turned  to  one 
Self-adoration. — Ah,  what  comes  of  this  ? 
The  joy  falters  a  moment,  with  closed  wings 
Wearying  in  its  upward  journey,  ere 
Again  it  goes  on  high,  bearing  its  song, 
Its  delight  breathing  and  its  vigour  beating 
The  highest  .height  of  the  air  above  the  world. 

She 

What  hast  thou  done  to  me  ! — I  would  have  soul, 
Before  I  knew  thee,  Love,  a  captive  held 
By  flesh.     Now,  inly  delighted  with  desire, 
My  body  knows  itself  to  be  nought  else 
But  thy  heart's  worship  of  me  ;   and  my  soul 
Therein  is  sunlight  held  by  warm  gold  air. 
Nay,  all  my  body  is  become  a  song 
Upon  the  breath  of  spirit,  a  love-song. 

He 

And  mine  is  all  like  one  rapt  faculty, 
As  it  were  listening  to  the  love  in  thee, 
My  whole  mortality  trembling  to  take 
Thy  body  like  heard  singing  of  thy  spirit. 

She 

Surely  by  this,  Beloved,  we  must  know 
Our  love  is  perfect  here, — that  not  as  holds 
The  common  dullard  thought,  we  are  things  lost 


LASCELLES  ABERCROMBIE  559 

In  an  amazement  that  is  all  unware ; 
But  wonderfully  knowing  what  we  are ! 
Lo,  now  that  body  is  the  song  whereof 
Spirit  is  mood,  knoweth  not  our  delight  ? 
Knoweth  not  beautifully  now  our  love, 
That  Life,  here  to  this  festival  bid  come 
Clad  in  his  splendour  of  worldly  day  and  night, 
Filled  and  empower'd  by  heavenly  lust,  is  all 
The  glad  imagination  of  the  Spirit  ? 

He 

Were  it  not  so,  Love  could  not  be  at  all : 
Nought  could  be,  but  a  yearning  to  fulfil 
Desire  of  beauty,  by  vain  reaching  forth 
Of  sense  to  hold  and  understand  the  vision 
Made  by  impassion'd  body, — vision  of  thee  ! 
But  music  mixt  with  music  are,  in  love, 
Bodily  senses ;   and  as  flame  hath  light, 
Spirit  this  nature  hath  imagined  round  it, 
No  way  concealed  therein,  when  love  conies  near, 
Nor  in  the  perfect  wedding  of  desires 
Suffering  any  hindrance. 

She 

Ah,  but  now, 

Now  am  I  given  love's  eternal  secret ! 
Yea,  thou  and  I  who  speak,  are  but  the  joy 
Of  our  for  ever  mated  spirits ;   but  now 
The  wisdom  of  my  gladness  even  through  Spirit 
Looks,  divinely  elate.    Who  hath  for  joy 
Our  Spirits  ?    Who  hath  imagined  them 
Round  him  in  fashion'd  radiance  of  desire, 
As  into  light  of  these  exulting  bodies 
Flaming  Spirit  is  uttered  ? 


560  LASCELLES  ABERCROMBIE 

He 

Yea,  here  the  end 

Of  love's  astonishment !    Now  know  we  Spirit, 
And  Who,  for  ease  of  joy,  contriveth  Spirit. 
Now  all  life's  loveliness  and  power  we  have 
Dissolved  in  this  one  moment^  and  our  burning 
Carries  all  shining  upward,  till  in  us 
Life  is  not  life,  but  the  desire  of  God, 
Himself  desiring  and  himself  accepting. 
Now  what  was  prophecy  in  us  is  made 
Fulfilment :  we  are  the  hour  and  we  are  the  joy, 
We  in  our  marvellousness  of  single  knowledge, 
Of  Spirit  breaking  down  the  room  of  fate 
And  drawing  into  his  light  the  greeting  fire 
Of  God, — God  known  in  ecstasy  of  love 
Wedding  himself  to  utterance  of  himself. 

JOSEPH  MARY  PLUNKETT 

1887-1916 

/  saw  the  Sun  at  Midnight,  rising  red 

I  SAW  the  Sun  at  midnight,  rising  red, 
Deep-hued  yet  glowing,  heavy  with  the  stain 
Of  blood-compassion,  and  I  saw  It  gain 
Swiftly  in  size  and  growing  till  It  spread 
Over  the  stars ;  the  heavens  bowed  their  head 
As  from  Its  heart  slow  dripped  a  crimson  rain, 
Then  a  great  tremor  shook  It,  as  of  pain — 
The  night  fell,  moaning,  as  It  hung  there  dead. 

O  Sun,  O  Christ,  O  bleeding  Heart  of  flame  ! 
Thou  giv'st  Thine  agony  as  our  life's  worth, 
And  mak'st  it  infinite,  lest  we  have  dearth 
Of  rights  wherewith  to  call  upon  thy  Name ; 
Thou  pawnest  Heaven  as  a  pledge  for  Earth, 
And  for  our  glory  sufferest  all  shame. 


JOSEPH  MARY  PLUNKETT  561 

/  see  His  Blood  upon  the  Rose 

I  SEE  his  blood  upon  the  rose 
And  in  the  stars  the  glory  of  his  eyes, 
His  body  gleams  amid  eternal  snows, 
His  tears  fall  from  the  skies. 

I  see  his  face  in  every  flower  ; 
The  thunder  and  the  singing  of  the  birds 
Are  but  his  voice — and  carven  by  his  power 
Rocks  are  his  written  words. 

All  pathways  by  his  feet  are  worn, 
His  strong  heart  stirs  the  ever-beating  sea, 
His  crown  of  thorns  is  twined  with  every  thorn, 
His  cross  is  every  tree. 


DAVID  ATWOOD  WASSON 

1823-1887 
The  Mystic 

i.    Knowledge 

HPHE  Secret  of  the  World  is  lowly, 
A     Self-sung  nigh  my  pleading  ear  ; 
It  presses  close,  enchanting,  holy, 

Murmuring, — what,  I  cannot  hear  : 
A  dream  embosoming  all  my  waking, 
Solace  shaming  all  my  fear. 

In  hours  serenest  and  profoundest, 

List  I  'yond  the  breadth  of  time  : 
Over  the  sea  of  calm  Thou  soundest ; 

Now  I  catch  the  tune,  the  rhyme, 
And  now  shall  know  ! — Alas !  the  silence 

Ripples,  broken  ;   dies  the  chime. 


562  DAVID  ATWOOD  WASSON 

Partial,  the  universal  Mother 

Tells  her  secret  to  the  stars  : 
And  they  intone  it  each  to  other, 

Trooping  in  their  silver  cars. 
Winging  and  witching  comes  the  echo, 

But  mine  ear  the  meaning  bars. 

When  the  sunlight,  aether  flooding, 
Rains  its  richness  down  the  sky, 

The  Fact  on  every  beam  is  brooding, 
And  on  every  leaf  an  eye 

Implanteth,  where  the  dauntless,  dimless, 
Godlike  vision  I  espy. 

The  psalmist  pine-tree,  sounding,  sweeping 
One  great  chord  forevermore  ; 

Deep-chested  Ocean's  chant,  as,  keeping 
Time  upon  the  throbbing  shore, 

His  billowy  palm  still  falls  and  rises, — 
Both  recount  that  wondrous  lore. 

The  World  is  rich,  it  hath  possession  ; 

Joy  of  wealth  fills  land  and  sea  ; 
The  fields  in  bloom,  the  stars  in  session, 

Birds  and  blades  on  bough  and  lea, 
All  know  the  truth,  the  joy,  the  wonder, 

Not  revealed  to  man,  to  me. 

Nature,  be  just  in  thy  bestowing  ! 

Best  to  best  shouldst  thou  confide. 
Oh  !  why  from  him,  whose  bliss  is  knowing, 

Knowledge,  cruel,  dost  thou  hide  ? 
Since,  that  withholden,  naught  is  given  ; 

Given,  naught  withheld  beside. 


DAVID  ATWOOD  WASSON  563 

ii.     Life 

A  goblet  drained  is  all  my  knowing, — 
Cup  whence  I  have  quaffed  the  wine  : 

From  out  the  Unknown  comes  the  flowing 
And  exhaustless  juice  divine, 

That  lends  the  blood  its  priceless  crimson, 
And  the  eye  its  living  shine. 

Embrace  me,  Mystery  of  Being  ; 

Fill  my  arteries,  flood  my  brain, 
And  through  me  pour  thy  heart,  till  seeing, 

Thought,  are  drowned,  like  dew  in  rain, 
In  powerful,  pure  participation  : 

Separate  life  is  separate  pain. 

Temple  unseen  of  Truth  immortal, 

Thought  hath  brought  me  to  thy  door  ; 

Never  passes  he  the  portal, 

I  am  drawn  the  threshold  o'er  ; 

And  lo  !   I  am  a  leaf  that  quivers 
In  God's  joy-wind  evermore  ! 

Now  are  the  light-waves  round  me  rolling, 

Now  the  love-tides  through  me  run, 
Body  and  soul  anew  ensouling  : 

Seeing  and  being  melt  in  one. 
The  ear  is  self-same  with  the  music, 

Beam  with  vision,  eye  with  sun. 


564 

CLARENCE  A.  WALWORTH 

Musa  Extatica 
altar  tiles  are  under  her  feet, 
Buff  and  blue  ; 

The  tiles  lie  smooth  beneath  her  feet, 
But  touch  not  her  sandal  shoe. 
Her  eyes  entranced  might  seem  to  gaze 
Where  arches  concentrate  and  meet 
In  a  maze  ; 

But  the  arches  are  not  in  view. 
Where  does  the  vision  lie  ? 
What  fixes  the  maiden's  eye  ? 
What  makes  her  smile  ? 
Is  it  far,  or  is  it  near  ? 
What  makes  her  garments  float  so  clear 
Above  the  bed  of  tile  ? 
They  are  not  lifted  by  the  air. 
Why  hold  her  hands  behind  her  head, 
Dipped  in  that  foam  of  golden  hair, 
As  if  she  heard  some  distant  tread, 
And  stood  prepared  to  call  ? 
Why  does  her  bosom  rise  and  fall  ? 
Its  even  swell  of  deep  emotion 
Is  like  the  roll  on  a  placid  ocean 
Of  billows  from  afar. 
Who  can  tell  what  these  billows  are  ? 
Is  it  joy  coming,  or  desire  outgoing  ? 
Does  she  command,  or  is  she  wooing  ? 
Why  does  she  smile  ?   why  bend  her  brow  ? 
Why  nod  ?  why  beckon  now, 
Whiles  censuring,  and  whiles  approving, 
Is  she  conveying  her  desire 
To  some  viewless  choir, 
Or  a  crowd  of  spirits  moving  ? 


CLARENCE  A.  WALWORTH  565 

Wait !   wait !   Now  she  is  still. 
If  thou  hast  a  poet's  ear 
For  sacred  song,  come  near  ! 
The  beating  of  her  heart  will  tell. 

'  Lo  !   me  on  holy  ground, 

With  burning  bushes  all  around. 

Oh  !   whither  shall  I  turn  ? 

I  burn  !   I  burn  ! 

Electric  currents  come  and  go. 

They  thread  my  spirit  through  and  through  : 

And  a  crowding  tide  of  thought 

Holds  my  spirit  overwrought, 

And  urges  love  to  fond  despair. 

Oh  !   give  me  air  ! 

I  die  !   I  die  ! 

Blow  on  me  from  the  upper  sky, 

Or  joy  that  has  no  breath, 

Unsung  must  end  in  death. 

Oh  !   give  me  air  divine  ! 

Brace  me  with  the  breath  of  wine  ! 

Give  me  such  milk  as  flows  from  the  breast 

Of  the  all-hallowing  Eucharist, 

That  I  may  troll 

Sweet  carols  to  the  Oversoul. 

Either  fill  me 

With  blood  of  song,  or  kill  me. 

'  Oh  !    I  am  drunk,  but  not  with  drink  ; 

Wild,  but  not  all  beyond  command. 

How  could  imagination  think 

To  gauge,  by  law  of  plumb  and  line, 

A  vision  reared  by  heavenly  wand, 

A  beauty  all  entrancing  and  divine, 

Which  makes  thought  reel  as  if  with  wine  ? 


566  CLARENCE  A.  WALWORTH 

It  steals  my  reason,  yet  I  own  it ; 
It  steals  my  thought  to  crown  it. 
My  heart  in  sweet  delirium 
Lies  safe  at  home. 
It  gives  me  more  than  it  can  take, 
Though  I  leave  all  for  its  dear  sake  ; 
A  mighty  vision  haunts  me, 
Enchants  and  disenchants  me, 
Heals  my  wounds,  yet  makes  me  bleed. 
Not  for  the  world  would  I  dispel  it. 
Oh  !   could  I,  as  I  see  it,  tell  it, 
I  were  a  bard  indeed. 

'  Oh  !   I  am  mad,  but  not  with  folly, 

Sad  am  I  without  melancholy, 

Glad,  but  with  sober  merriment ; 

Fond  am  I,  without  detriment 

To  reason.    Bonded  to  higher  will 

That  may  not  be  denied, 

My  own  I  seek  to  kill, 

All  fearless  of  the  suicide. 

Oh  !    I  am  calm, 

I  know  where  I  am. 

Yea,  when  most  overwrought 

I  still  am  mistress  of  my  thought ; 

Though  oft  to  others  I  may  seem 

A  vessel  driving  to  the  coast 

On  the  foam  of  a  dream, 

And  utterly  lost, 

There  's  method  in  my  madness, 

There  's  measure  in  my  gladness ; 

And  into  rhythmic  rule  I  bring 

True  anthems  to  my  Lord  and  King. 

Of  loVe,  all  ruling  love,  I  sing. 


CLARENCE  A.  WALWORTH  567 

By  love  inspired,  by  love  oppressed, 

Within  my  breast 

Electric  forces  gathering 

Leap  into  buds  ; 

Thoughts  crystallize  into  thick  geodes ; 

The  grasses  wave  their  myriad  flags ; 

Hills  helmeted  with  lofty  crags 

Rein  up  like  warriors  ; 

The  hemlocks  bending  low,  '  , 

Like  water  carriers, 

Beneath  their  yokes  of  snow, 

Keep  measure  with  their  feet 

To  the  time  I  beat ; 

Pines,  crowding  to  look  o'er 

The  common  score, 

Bend  eagerly  down  till  their  bonnets  meet ; 

Clouds  march  in  groups ; 

Waves  march  in  columns  over  the  sea  ; 

Stars  gallop  in  troops ; 

Nights  and  days  keep  time  ; 

The  fuguing  seasons  chime 

With  nature  and  with  me  ; — 

All  praise  the  Lord  together. 

To  the  last  cliffs  of  space  I  shout, 

My  choristers  to  gather. 

Sing  out !   sing  out  ! 

Keep  tune,  keep  time, 

To  the  pitch  and  motion  of  my  rhyme  ! 

Faster  !    faster  !    faster  ! 

Look  at  me  ! 

One  !   two  !   three  ! 

'Tis  the  measure  of  the  mighty  Master. 

So  beats  revolving  life  in  Trinity. 

'Tis  the  secret  of  infinity — 


568  CLARENCE  A.  WAL WORTH 

Who  keeps  true  time  shall  time  outlast ; 

Who  loses,  stubbornly  slow, 

From  heaven  shall  be  outcast, 

And  its  music  shall  never  know. 

Sing  all !   sing  out ! 

Prolong  the  chant  with  joyous  shout. 

Faith  praises  with  untiring  tongue. 

The  hearts  that  weary  die  unblest, 

Harps  must  not  be  unstrung, 

Love  may  repose  but  never  rest.' 

ALFRED    GURNEY 
The  New  World 

'That  new  world  which  is  the  old.' — TENNYSON. 

ANEW  world  did  Columbus  find  ? 
Ah  !  'tis  not  so  that  world  is  found  ; 
God's  golden  harvest-sheaves  who  bind 
Are  tillers  of  another  ground. 

No  new  world  like  the  old  we  need ; 

One  thing  suffices — one  alone, 
A  garnered  world-harvest  from  seed 

The  wounded  Hands  of  Christ  have  sown. 

No  earthly  Paradise  avails, 

No  Eldorado  in  the  West ; 
The  Spirit's  Breath  must  fill  their  sails 

Who  seek  the  Highlands  of  the  Blest. 

By  stripes  is  healing  wrought,  and  stars 

Point  ever  to  a  central  Sun  ; 
He  flies  the  conquering  flag,  whose  scars, 

Transfigured,  speak  of  Victory  won. 


ALFRED  GURNEY  569 

O  Royal  Heart,  Thy  Kingdom  come  ! 

All  else  may  change  ;   all  else  may  go  : 
Not  eastward,  westward,  is  our  Home, 

But  onward,  upward  : — even  so  ! 

One  Sign  alone  is  love-designed, 
God's  Evergreen,  the  Eternal  Rood  ; 

Happy  the  home-seekers  who  find 
Its  meaning  plain — a  world  renewed  ! 


EDWIN  J.  ELLIS 

Preface  to  'Fate  in  Arcadia' 

HERE  kneels  my  word,  that  may  not  say 
Even  to  the  inward  ear  of  night 
More  than  the  laughter  of  the  day 
Or  the  soft  weeping  of  twilight. 

No  waking  hours,  no  sleep  shall  find 
The  world's  continual  dream  revealed. 

The  Living  Word  is  silent  mind, 
And  every  book  is  closed  and  sealed. 

Our  Mother  Earth  for  daily  things 
Has  given  the  daily  mother-tongue ; 

But  the  mute  wonder  that  she  brings, 
All  lips  have  kissed  ;  no  voice  has  sung. 

And  even  now  the  usual  word 

Spread  like  an  empty  couch  and  cold 

Measures  the  sound  our  fathers  heard, 
But  holds  no  more  the  hint  untold. 


570  EDWIN  J.  ELLIS 

For  He  is  risen  whom  we  seek  : 

The  linen  clothes  without  the  form 

Are  folded,  lest  too  clear  they  speak 
The  Divine  Body,  buried  warm. 

Then  every  song  is  free  from  blame, 
Though  silence  veil  her  inmost  part 

Like  the  dark  centre  of  the  flame, 
Or  the  hot  patience  of  the  heart. 

The  Wanderer 

A'\  Christ,  it  were  enough  to  know 
That  brooding  on  the  unborn  things 
Thou  gatherest  up  the  years  that  go 
Like  a  hen's  brood  beneath  her  wings. 

It  were  enough  to  know  that  those, 
More  evil  than  the  years  that  fall, 

Who  heard  Thee  mocked  Thy  safe  repose 
And  would  not  trust  Thee  at  Thy  call. 

It  were  enough  that  Thou  hast  died, 
Because  Thyself  Thou  couldst  not  save, 

Unless  by  losing  from  Thy  side 

Thy  sons  that  drove  Thee  to  Thy  grave. 

Yet  more  arid  more  we  know  and  see, 
For  Golgotha  the  shade  retains 

Of  Him  who  died,  the  Form  of  Thee, 
Of  Him  who  bore  Thy  fleshly  pains. 

Nor  there  alone,  this  Form  shall  be 
Still  seen  within  us,  Thou  dost  say 

Until  there  shine  on  earth  and  sea 
Light  of  the  unforeboded  Day. 


EDWIN  J.  ELLIS  571 

O  Christ  the  Wanderer,  marked  as  Cain, 

We  know  the  sign  upon  Thy  brow ; 
We  know  the  trailing  cross,  the  stain  ; 

The  passing  footstep  whispers  now. 

It  was  Thy  hand,  we  learn  at  last, 

That  nailed  Thee  in  that  far-off  year  ; 

Thy  hand  as  now  Thou  wanderest  past, 
Drives  deep  within  Thy  side  the  spear. 

While  evil  holds  the  world  in  grip 

And  men  revile  the  eternal  powers, 
This  vision  holds  Thee  lip  to  lip 

Close  to  our  love  and  makes  Thee  ours. 


JOHN  GRAY 
The  Tree  of  Knowledge 

FROM  what  meek  jewel  seed 
Did  this  tree  spring  ? 
How  first  beat  its  new  life  in  bleak  abode 
Of  virgin  rock,  strange  metals  for  its  food, 
Towards  its  last  hewn  mould,  the  bitter  rood  r 
First  did  it  sprout,  indeed, 
A  double  wing. 

Earth  hung  with  its  gross  weight 

Its  loins  unto  : 

The  tender  wings,  with  hope  in  every  vein, 
Beat  feebly  upward,  saying  :   '  Is  this  the  pain 
The  Sooth  spake  of  ;  to  lift  to  God  again 
This  blackness'  dark  estate 
Reformed  anew  ? 


572  JOHN  GRAY 

'  Mine  'tis,  of  fruit  mine  own, 

To  work  this  deed  : 

Earnest  of  promise  absolute,  these  green 
Sweet  wings ;  a  million  engines  pulse  therein. 
Yet  can  I  leave  not  for  a  space,  to  lean 
Upon  a  fulcrum  known, 
To  know  my  need.' 


With  which,  the  seed  upthrust 

To  God  a  scale  ; 

Wondering  at  its  fibre  and  tough  growth  ; 
Saying,  the  while  it  purposed  :   '  For  He  knoweth 
My  sore  extremity,  how  I  am  loth 
To  cleave  unto  the  dust 
Which  makes  me  hale.' 


Long  while  the  scale  increased 

In  height  and  girth  ; 

Cast  many  branches  forth  and  many  wings  ; 
Wherein  and  under,  formed  and  fashioned  things 
Had  great  content  and  speech  and  twitterings : 
Insect  and  fowl  and  beast 
And  sons  of  earth. 


Stern,  netherward  did  grope 

Each  resolute  root 

Of  the  tree,  making  question  in  the  deep 
Of  spirits,  where  the  mighty  metals  sleep, 
How  long  ere  from  its  base  the  rock  should  leap  ; 
Saying  :   •  Yet  have  I  hope 
Of  that  my  fruit.' 


JOHN  GRAY  573 

Sprang  from  its  topmost  bough 

The  hope  at  length 

Fearsome  and  fierce  and  passionate.    The  sire 
Warmed  his  son's  vitals  with  celestial  fire, 
Feeding  him  with  sweet  gum  of  strong  desire, 
Lest  be  not  stanch  enow 
His  godly  strength. 


Until  the  gardener  came 

With  his  white  spouse, 
Wounding  the  tree,  and  ravishing  the  son, 
(Whence  curses  fallen  and  a  world  undone.) 
For  that  rape,  wrathfully  a  shining  one 
Drave  them  with  fearful  flame 
Without  their  house. 


Race  upon  savage  race, 

Rough  brood  on  brood, 

Defiled  before  it,  whiles  the  tree  scanned  each  ; 
Leaned  leaf  and  branch  to  grapple  and  beseech  ; 
Till,  on  a  certain  day,  requiring  speech 
Of  the  tree,  at  its  base 

The  whole  world  stood  : 


1  What  hast  thou  given  us, 

Thou  barren  tree  ? 

"  Knowledge,"  thou  answerest  ?     Thou  hast  set  agape 
The  door  of  Knowledge  only.    Thy  limbs  ape 
Some  truth.    We  love  thee  not,  nor  love  thy  shape. 
Imposture,  thus  and  thus 
We  fashion  thee.' 


574  JOHN  GRAY 

Sorely  then  handled  it 

The  gardener's  sons. 

Strangely  they  built  it  newly,  having  cleft 
Its  being  all  asunder  ;  stem  bereft 
Of  quivering  limbs,  save  one  to  right  and  left, 
Urging  the  self-same  wit 
It  gave  them  once. 


'  Lo  !   all  my  glories  fall. 

Of  these  my  woes, 

What  know  those  wrathful  men,  save,  in  yon  place, 
Perhaps,  yon  athlete,  stripped  for  my  embrace  ? 
If  longing  cheat  me  not,  writ  in  his  face. 
He  knows  about  it  all, 
He  knows,  he  knows. 

'  Sorrow  !   What  sin  they  now, 

Those  wrathful  men  ? 

Passion  !   thou'rt  come  to  me  again  too  soon  : 
Too  hot  thou  givst  me  back  the  fiery  boon 
I  gave  thee  ;  love  consumes  me,  that  I  swoon  ; 
Thou,  on  my  topmost  bough, 
My  fruit  again.' 


On  the  Holy  Trinity 

ERE  aught  began, 
Beyond  the  span 
Of  sense,  the  Word 
(O  priceless  hoard !) 
Was,  which  God  fashioned  in  his  youth, 


JOHN  GRAY  575 

O  Fatherbreast, 

Wherefrom,  with  zest, 

The  Word  did  bloom  ! 

Yet  did  the  womb 
Retain  the  Word  in  very  truth. 

Of  twain  a  fount, 

Love  paramount, 

The  double  troth, 

Known  unto  both, 
The  ever  gentle  Spirit  flows. 

Equal,  and  none 

Can  make  but  one  ; 

One  are  the  three  ; 

Yet  what  it  be 
That  triple  spirit  only  knows. 

The  triple  crown 

Hath  deep  renown  ; 

Ring  without  clasp 

No  sense  can  grasp, 
It  is  a  depth  without  a  floor. 

Is  rest,  is  grace, 

Shape,  form  and  space  ; 

The  source,  the  ring 

Of  everything ; 
A  point  which  never  moveth  more. 

To  its  abode 

There  is  no  road  ; 

Curiously 

It  beareth  thee 
Into  a  desert  strangely  strange. 

Is  wide,  is  broad, 

Unmeasured  road ; 

The  desert  has 

Nor  time  nor  space, 
Its  way  is  wonderfully  strange. 


576  JOHN  GRAY 

That  desert  plot 

No  foot  hath  trod  ; 

Created  wit 

Ne'er  came  to  it ; 
It  is,  and  no  man  knoweth  what. 

Is  there,  is  here, 

Is  far,  is  near, 

Is  deep,  is  high, 

And  none  reply 
Whether  this  thing  be  this  or  that. 

Is  light,  is  pure, 

Is  most  obscure, 

Nameless,  alone, 

It  is  unknown, 
Free  both  of  end  and  origin. 

It  standeth  dark, 
Is  bare  and  stark  ; 
Reveal  his  face 
Who  knows  its  place, 
And  say  what  fashion  it  is  in. 
Become  a  child, 
Deaf,  blind  and  mild  ; 
Be  eye  and  thought 
Reduced  to  naught, 
Self  and  negation  driven  back. 
Space,  time  resign, 
And  every  sign, 
No  leader  hath 
The  narrow  path, 
So  com'st  thou  to  the  desert  track. 
O  soul,  abroad, 
Go  in  to  God  ; 
Sink  as  a  yes 
In  nothingness, 
Sink  in  unfathomable  flood. 


JOHN  GRAY  577 

I  fly  from  thee, 
Thou  greatest  me  ; 
Self  left  behind, 
If  I  but  find 
Thee,  O  thou  good  of  every  good  ! 


EUGENE  MASON 

i).  1862 

Apparition 

HOW  shall  I  find  Him,  who  can  be  my  guide  ? 
Wears  He  a  human  form,  a  tear-marred  face, 
By  blood-red  raiment  may  He  be  descried, 

Or  broods  He  far  withdrawn  through  stellar  space  ? 
Perchance,  informing  all,  His  coils  entwine 

And  bind  the  monstrous  fabric  cell  to  cell, 
Or,  veiled  in  service,  'neath  this  Bread  and  Wine 

A  homely  God,  He  deigns  with  men  to  dwell. 
Lo  !  just  beyond  the  skyline  He  may  stand, 

Speak  just  without  the  waftage  of  mine  ear, 
I  all  but  touch  Him  with  my  outstretched  hand, 

Clear  to  my  senses  He  may  straight  appear. 

I  hush  my  drumming  heart,  I  stay  my  breath 
To  catch  His  step,  to  hearken  what  He  saith. 

FRED.  G.  BOWLES 
Resurrection 

AS  the  slow  Evening  gather'd  in  her  grey, 
ji\    And  one  clear  star  its  ancient  pathway  trod — 
With  long,  low  cadences  of  dear  delay 

The  lark,  descending,  left  his  song  with  God  ! 
MYST.  u 


578  FRED.  G.  BOWLES 

And  Peace  came,  like  a  reverential  soul, 

With  far-off  tremors  of  a  further  world, 
And  thro'  the  silver  mist  of  twilight  stole 

Unto  the  heart  of  all.    And  upward  curl'd 
The  April  moon,  resurgent  of  the  sun, 

To  the  blue  dusk  of  the  exalted  dome 
Of  heav'n  ;   and  the  white  wind-flowers,  one  by  one, 

Shook  in  light  slumber  on  their  hilly  home. 
It  was  so  sweet  to  stoop  and  feel  around  ! 

Each  blade  of  grass  a  breathing  lyre  of  life 
Whereon  the  wind,  in  arias  of  sound, 

Told  subtle  music ;   how  the  great  World,  rife 
With  scent  of  violet,  and  primrose-strewn, 

Strain'd  tender  fingers  from  each  dewy  sod 
To  the  dear  Christ  of  chrysalis  and  moon — 

And,  dusk  descending,  left  her  soul  with  God  ! 


An  Insurgent  of  Art 

IKE  a  tired  lover  I  rest  on  her  bosom, 

I,  the  Insurgent  of  Art .  .  .  Thou,  the  Glory, 
Worshipped  of  Cherubim,  leaning  toward  me  ; 
Now  through  the  yellowing  clouds  of  the  rushes, 
Now  o'er  the  music  of  waters  melodic, 
Now  from  the  wavering  blue  fields  of  heaven, 
Or  from  the  daffodil's  soundless  pale  trumpet, 
Drawing  my  soul  with  miraculous  ardours  ! 
What  is  thy  purpose  ?    Ah  !   What  is  thy  doing  ? 
White  stars  are  water-blooms  set  in  the  ocean, 
Young  lives  are  petals  from  one  burning  Blossom, 
Fallen  from  altitudes  starry  and  primal — 
Welcome  the  wind  that  shall  blow  them  to  shelter, 
Breathe  on  their  circumstance,  shape  the  Soul's  eddy, 


FRED.  G.  BOWLES  579 

Separately  fire  and  transform  all  this  wonder. 
I,  thy  lost  lover,  long-waiting,  have  found  Thee, 
I,  who  had  seen  Thy  sheathed  colours,  descending, 
Melt  into  violets,  flow  into  pansies, 
Know  that  the  Master  hath  need  of  the  artist  ! 
Out  of  the  force  of  His  Being,  atomic, 
Came  I,  and  go  I,  ripe  seed  of  His  sowing  ; 
Reticent,  mutinous,  still  have  I  found  Thee, 
Steadfast  I  worship,  for  Thou  art  so  near  me — 
Set  in  a  Soul,  my  one  Holy  of  Holies  ! 


NORA  CHESSON 
Hertha 

I  AM  the  spirit  of  all  that  lives, 
Labours  and  loses  and  forgives. 
My  breath's  the  wind  among  the  reeds  ; 
I'm  wounded  when  a  birch-tree  bleeds. 
I  am  the  clay  nest  'neath  the  eaves 
And  the  young  life  wherewith  it  brims. 
The  silver  minnow  where  it  swims 
Under  a  roof  of  lily-leaves 
Beats  with  my  pulses ;  from  my  eyes 
The  violet  gathered  amethyst. 
I  am  the  rose  of  winter  skies, 
The  moonlight  conquering  the  mist. 

I  am  the  bird  the  falcon  strikes ; 
My  strength  is  in  the  kestrel's  wing, 
My  cruelty  is  in  the  shrikes. 
My  pity  bids  the  dock-leaves  grow 
Large,  that  a  little  child  may  know 


580  NORA  CHESSON 

Where  he  shall  heal  the  nettle's  sting. 
I  am  the  snowdrop  and  the  snow, 
Dead  amber,  and  the  living  fir — 
The  corn-sheaf  and  the  harvester. 

My  craft  is  breathed  into  the  fox 
When,  a  red  cub,  he  snarls  and  plays 
With  his  red  vixen.    Yea,  I  am 
The  wolf,  the  hunter,  and  the  lamb  ; 
I  am  the  slayer  and  the  slain, 
The  thought  new-shapen  in  the  brain. 
I  am  the  ageless  strength  of  rocks, 
The  weakness  that  is  all  a  grace, 
Being  the  weakness  of  a  flower. 

The  secret  on  the  dead  man's  face 

Written  in  his  last  living  hour, 

The  endless  trouble  of  the  seas 

That  fret  and  struggle  with  the  shore, 

Strive  and  are  striven  with  evermore — 

The  changeless  beauty  that  they  wear 

Through  all  their  changes — all  of  these 

Are  mine.    The  brazen  streets  of  hell 

I  know,  and  heaven's  gold  ways  as  well. 

Mortality,  eternity, 

Change,  death,  and  life  are  mine — are  me. 


58i 

EVA  GORE-BOOTH 

The  Quest 

FOR  years  I  sought  the  Many  in  the  One, 
I  thought  to  find  lost  waves  and  broken  rays, 
The  rainbow's  faded  colours  in  the  sun — 
The  dawns  and  twilights  of  forgotten  days. 

But  now  I  seek  the  One  in  every  form, 
Scorning  no  vision  that  a  dewdrop  holds, 
The  gentle  Light  that  shines  behind  the  storm, 
The  Dream  that  many  a  twilight  hour  enfolds. 

ffarvest 

THOUGH  the  long  seasons  seem  to  separate 
Sower  and  reaper  or  deeds  dreamed  and  done, 
Yet  when  a  man  reaches  the  Ivory  Gate 
Labour  and  life  and  seed  and  corn  are  one. 

Because  thou  art  the  doer  and  the  deed, 
Because  thou  art  the  thinker  and  the  thought, 
Because  thou  art  the  helper  and  the  need, 
And  the  cold  doubt  that  brings  all  things  to  nought. 

Therefore  in  every  gracious  form  and  shape 
The  world's  dear  open  secret  shalt  thou  find, 
From  the  One  Beauty  there  is  no  escape 
Nor  from  the  sunshine  of  the  Eternal  mind. 

The  patient  labourer,  with  guesses  dim, 
Follows  this  wisdom  to  its  secret  goal. 
He  knows  all  deeds  and  dreams  exist  in  him, 
And  all  men's  God  in  every  human  soul. 


582  EVA  GORE-BOOTH 

Form 

THE  buried  statue  through  the  marble  gleams, 
Praying  for  freedom,  an  unwilling  guest, 
Yet  flooding  with  the  light  of  her  strange  dreams 
The  hard  stone  folded  round  her  uncarved  breast. 

Founded  in  granite,  wrapped  in  serpentine, 
Light  of  all  life  and  heart  of  every  storm, 
Doth  the  uncarven  image,  the  Divine, 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  each  man,  wait  for  form. 

SUSAN  MITCHELL 
The  Living  Chalice 

PHE  Mother  sent  me  on  the  holy  quest, 
1  Timid  and  proud  and  curiously  dressed 
In  vestures  by  her  hand  wrought  wondrously ; 
An  eager  burning  heart  she  gave  to  me. 
The  Bridegroom's  Feast  was  set  and  I  drew  nigh- 
Master  of  Life,  Thy  Cup  has  passed  me  by. 

Before  new-dressed  I  from  the  Mother  came, 
In  dreams  I  saw  the  wondrous  Cup  of  Flame. 
Ah,  Divine  Chalice,  how  my  heart  drank  deep, 
Waking  I  sought  the  Love  I  knew  asleep. 
The  Feast  of  Life  was  set  and  I  drew  nigh — 
Master  of  Life,  Thy  Cup  has  passed  me  by. 

Eye  of  the  Soul,  awake,  awake  and  see 
Growing  within  the  Ruby  Radiant  Tree, 
Sharp  pain  hath  wrung  the  Clusters  of  my  Vine  ; 
My  heart  is  rose-red  with  its  brimmed  wine. 
Thou  hast  new-set  the  Feast  and  I  draw  nigh — 
Master  of  Life,  take  me,  Thy  Cup  am  I. 


SUSAN  MITCHELL  583 

Immortality 

AjE  cannot  reach  me  where  the  veils  of  God 
Have  shut  me  in, 
For  me  the  myriad  births  of  stars  and  suns 

Do  but  begin, 
And  here  how  fragrantly  there  blows  to  me 

The  holy  breath, 

Sweet  from  the  flowers  and  stars  and  hearts  of  men, 
From  life  and  death. 

We  are  not  old,  O  heart,  we  are  not  old, 

The  breath  that  blows 
The  soul  aflame  is  still  a  wandering  wind 

That  comes  and  goes ; 
And  the  stirred  heart  with  sudden  raptured  life 

A  moment  glows. 

A  moment  here — a  bulrush's  brown  head 

In  the  grey  rain, 
A  moment  there — a  child  drowned  and  a  heart 

Quickened  with  pain  ; 
The  name  of  Death,  the  blue  deep  heaven,  the  scent 

Of  the  salt  sea, 
The  spicy  grass,  the  honey  robbed 

From  the  wild  feee. 

Awhile  we  walk  the  world  on  its  wide  roads 

And  narrow  ways, 
And  they  pass  by,  the  countless  shadowy  troops 

Of  nights  and  days  ; 
We  know  them  not,  O  happy  heart, 

For  you  and  I 
Watch  where  within  a  slow  dawn  lightens  up 

Another  sky. 


584  SUSAN  MITCHELL 

Love' s  Mendicant 

WHAT  do  I  want  of  thee  ? 
No  gift  of  smile  or  tear 
Nor  casual  company, 
But  in  still  speech  to  me 
Only  thy  heart  to  he  r. 

Others  contentedly 
Go  lonely  here  and  there  ; 
I  cannot  pass  thee  by, 
Love's  Mendicant  am  I 
Who  meet  thee  everywhere. 

No  merchandise  I  make  ; 
Thou  mayst  not  give  to  me 
The  counterfeits  they  take. 
I  claim  Him  for  Love's  sake, 
The  Hidden  One  in  thee. 


JAMES  H.  COUSINS 
The  Quest 

HT'HEY  said  :    '  She  dwelleth  in  some  place  apart, 
JL    Immortal  Truth,  within  whose  eyes 

Who  looks  may  find  the  secret  of  the  skies 
And  healing  for  life's  smart ! ' 

I  sought  Her  in  loud  caverns  underground, — 
On  heights  where  lightnings  flashed  and  fell ; 
I  scaled  high  Heaven  ;    I  stormed  the  gates  of  Hell, 

But  Her  I  never  found 


JAMES  H.  COUSINS  585 

Till  thro'  the  tumults  of  my  Quest  I  caught 
A  whisper  :    '  Here,  within  thy  heart, 
I  dwell ;  for  I  am  thou  :   behold,  thou  art 

The  Seeker — and  the  Sought.' 

Vision 

[EN  I  from  life's  unrest  had  earned  the  grace 
-Of  utter  ease  beside  a  quiet  stream ; 
When  all  that  was  had  mingled  in  a  dream 
To  eyes  awakened  out  of  time  and  place ; 
Then  in  the  cup  of  one  great  moment's  space 
Was  crushed  the  living  wine  from  things  that  seem ; 
I  drank  the  joy  of  very  Beauty's  gleam, 
And  saw  God's  glory  face  to  shining  face. 

Almost  my  brow  was  chastened  to  the  ground, 

But  for  an  inner  Voice  that  said  :   '  Arise  ! 

Wisdom  is  wisdom  only  to  the  wise  : 

Thou  art  thyself  the  Royal  thou  hast  crowned  : 

In  Beauty  thine  own  beauty  thou  hast  found, 

And  thou  hast  looked  on  God  with  God's  own  eyes.' 


ALICE  MARY  BUCKTON 

The  Great  Response 

I ET  me  come  nearer  Thee, 

LiO  Perfect  Soul ! 

Down-looking  on  me,  whereso'er  I  tread, 
With  earnest  gaze  from  cliff,  and  sky  o'erhead, 
From  clustered  leaves  and  buds  and  bowers  of  green- 
Let  me  come  nearer  Thee  ! 


586  ALICE  MARY  BUCKTON 

Seeking  Thine  intercourse 

I  wander  wide 

O'er  hills  and  valleys,  under  moon  and  stars, 
Rapt  in  a  secret  tumult  of  delight 
At  every  passing  cloud,  and  changing  light 

On  stream  and  mountain  side. 

I  kiss  thy  cheek,  fair  rose ! 

Its  pearly  hue 

Reflects  the  darker  passion  blood  of  mine : 
Thy  tender  breath,  responding  to  the  lips, 
Is  sweeter  to  the  soul  than  new-mixt  wine. 

Young  veined 'leaf  uncurled, 

And  tendril  green, 
Clinging  about  my  finger  slenderly, 
Thou  seest  not  :  what  wouldst  thou  have  of  me  ? 
What  happy  sense  hast  thou,  to  know  the  touch 

Of  the  unseen  ? 

Blue  dome  of  heaven  that  guards 

The  living  world 

Like  a  green  gem  within  a  casket  rare, 
Fretted  with  brooks,  and  set  in  silver  seas, 
What  Breast  contains  ye  both,  the  moving  Earth 

And  the  free  Air  ? 

And  lo.!   within  my  soul 

Some  happy  Thing 

Betrayed  the  secret  sigh  of  heart's  content  : 
And,  from  the  hollows  of  the  breathless  hills 
There  came  a  quiet  Voice  :   Look  round  on  Me, 
The  Presence,  the  Desire  that  moves  and  fills, 

The  whole — the  part ! 


ALICE  MARY  BUCKTON  587 

I  rise  upon  the  winds : 

I  draw  the  stars 

Thro'  realms  of  night,  on  paths  of  trackless  dawn  ! 
Mine  Eye  contains  the  light  of  Day  :   mine  Arm 
Unfurls  the  cloud,  and  flings  the  grateful  shade 

On  hill  and  lawn  ! 

In  glimmering  regions,  yet  unfound, 

I  penetrate 

The  Abyss  of  Being,  and  the  Springs  of  Thought : 
I  order  things  that  be  :   and  blamelessly 
Divide  the  heavens  and  earth,  reproved  of  nought, 
Of  Joy  and  Power,  insatiate  ! 

I  linger  in  the  twilight  land  of  grief : 

With  health  divine 

Breathing  on  frozen  hearts  that  know  me  not ; 
They  lift  their  marred  and  chilly  lips  to  me, 
Swooning  into  my  bosom  dreamlessly, 

For  Grief  and  Death  are  mine  ! 

I  gather  up  the  fleeting  Souls  that  seem 

All  day  to  die  : 

Their  beauty,  melting,  passeth  not  away ! 
Woven  into  the  golden  mist  of  Life 
They  'merge  again  upon  the  teeming  Strife 

That  worketh  endlessly  ! 

And  Man,  the  fairest  of  my  children  !    Thou 
That  battiest  darkly  with  thy  Destiny, 
Whom  I  have  made  for  god-like  liberty, 
And  fain  had  lifted  up  to  be  with  Me — 
My  son  and  fellow-worker  !   know 


588  ALICE  MARY  BUCKTON 

I  only  Am  :    unhasting,  uncontrolled, 

My  Perfect  Will 

Fulfils  it's  perfect  Self,  around,  above ! 
My  HIDDEN  NAME  is  Joy !     O  mortal,  yield 
Unto  the  Breath  that  would  thy  being  fill, 
The  Breath  of  Love ! 


Before  the  Dawn 

nPHOU,  for  whom  words  have  exhausted  their  sweet- 

JL       ness — 

Thou,  the  All-End  of  all  human  desire — 
Thou,  in  whose  Presence  the  ages  are  hourless, 
Gather  me  nigher ! 

Husht  in  the  chambers  where  Reason  lies  sleeping, 
Ere  the  Day  claim  us,  to  which  we  are  told, — 
Wrapped  in  the  veil  of  Thy  slumbering  Beauty, 
Fold  me,  oh  fold  ! 

Fill  me  afresh  with  the  wonder  of  wakening — 
Draw  me  again  with  Thy  splendour  and  might — 
Open  my  lids  but  a  moment,  and  grant  me 
Sight  of  Thy  sight ! 

Out  of  the  furthest  high  Throne  of  Thy  Dwelling. 
A  motionless  Flame  on  the  Bosom  of  Thought, 
Deign  to  uncover  Thyself,  O  Eternal 
Seeker  and  Sought ! 

Pure  in  the  Body  that  offers  Thee  homage, 
Blest  in  the  Thought  that  embraces  Thee  far, 
Next  to  Thy  secret  and  innermost  Breathing 
Thy  worshippers  are  ! 


ALICE  MARY  BUCKTON  589 

Forth  to  the  Day  that  I  know  not  awaiting, 
Out  to  the  highway  Thy  glory  hath  trod, 
Glad  as  a  child,  and  as  passionless,  fearless, 
Lead  me,  O  God  ! 

ANNA  BUNSTON  (MRS.  DE  BARY) 

Basque  Peasant  retumiri g  from  Church 
LITTLE  lark,  you  need  not  fly 


o 


To  seek  your  Master  in  the  sky, 

He  treads  our  native  sod; 
Why  should  you  sing  aloft,  apart  ? 
Sing  to  the  heaven  of  my  heart ; 

In  me,  in  me,  in  me  is  God ! 

O  strangers  passing  in  your  car, 
You  pity  me  who  come  so  far 

On  dusty  feet,  ill  shod ; 
You  cannot  guess,  you  cannot  know 
Upon  what  wings  of  joy  I  go 

Who  travel  home  with  God. 

From  far-off  lands  they  bring  your  fare, 
Earth's  choicest  morsels  are  your  share, 

And  prize  of  gun  and  rod ; 
At  richer  boards  I  take  my  seat, 
Have  dainties  angels  may  not  eat : 

In  me,  in  me,  in  me  is  God ! 

O  little  lark,  sing  loud  and  long 

To  Him  who  gave  you  flight  and  song, 

And  me  a  heart  aflame. 
He  loveth  them  of  low  degree, 
And  He  hath  magnified  me, 

And  holy,  holy,  holy  is  His  Name ! 


590 


ANNA  BUNSTON 


A  Great  Mystery 

Shall  I,  the  gnat  which  dances  in  Thy  ray, 
Dare  to  be  reverent  ? — COVENTRY  PATMORE 

STRANGELY,  strangely,  Lord,  this  morning 
Camest  Thou  beneath  my  roof, 
Shorn  of  all  Thy  royal  adorning, 

Stripp'd  of  judgement  and  reproof, 
The  King  of  kings  yet  gladly  scorning, 

Every  plea  but  love's  behoof. 
'  Can  this  be  God  ?  '  I  said,  '  who  enters, 

This  be  God  who  climbs  my  stair  ? 
God  sits  high  in  heavenly  centres, 

And  though  He  hath  us  in  His  care, 
'Tis  as  His  adopted  children, 

Slaves  redeemed  from  Satan's  snare. 
God  is  mightier  than  the  mountains, 

Far  more  majesty  would  wear, 
This  One  comes  like  summer  fountains, 

Hath  no  snow  upon  His  hair. 
With  eagle  pinions  God  will  cover 

Those  who  seek  for  refuge  there, 
But  these  are  dove-like  wings  that  hover, 

God  was  never  half  so  fair.' 
Then  with  voice  like  falling  water 

Viewless  angels  sang  to  me, 
Fear  not  thou,  O  virgin  daughter, 

Thy  King  desires  thy  poverty. 

At  that  '  Ave  Maria' 

I  arose  and  I  obeyed ; 
O  my  King  Cophetua, 

I,  Thy  blessed  beggar-maid, 


ANNA  BUNSTON  591 

Who  once  lay  among  the  potsherds 

Stand  in  silver  plumes  arrayed ; 
I,  who  lonely  in  the  vineyards 

Morn  and  noon  and  evening  strayed, 
Now  am  wrapt  in  Thine  embraces, 

'Neath  Thy  banner  *  Love  '  am  laid, 
Made  partaker  of  Thy  graces, 

I,  the  outcast  beggar-maid. 

No  excuse  and  no  invention 

Makes  me  less  unworthy  Thee, 
No  prostration,  no  pretension 

Of  unique  humility, 
But  Thy  glorious  condescension 

Blazes  through  my  misery, 
And  Thy  love  finds  full  extension 

In  the  nothingness  of  me. 
Dark  my  soul,  yet  Thou  hast  sought  her, 

My  night  allows  Thy  day  to  shine, 
Thou  the  grape  art,  I  the  water — 

Both  together  make  the  wine. 
I  the  clay  and  Thou  the  craftsman, 

I  the  boat  and  Thou  the  strand, 
I  the  pencil,  Thou  the  draughtsman, 

I  the  harp  and  Thou  the  hand. 

But  the  world  with  envy  raging 

Fain  would  snatch  me,  Lord,  from  Thee, 
And  Death  and  Hell  their  war  are  waging, 

Therefore  go  not  far  from  me. 
By  the  mystery  of  this  housel, 

By  this  momentary  truth, 
By  the  love  of  this  espousal, 

By  this  kindness  of  my  youth, 


592  ANNA  BUNSTON 

By  Thy  promise  of  remembrance, 

By  that  sweet  perversity 
That  makes  my  dark  uncomely  semblance 

Seem  desirable  to  Thee — 
Leave  me  not  lest  faith  should  falter, 

O  !   secure  my  fealty, 
I  the  victim  on  Thine  altar, 

Thou  the  fire  consuming  me. 


'  0  Sovereign  Lord^  Thou  Lover  of  Men  s 
Souls!3 

'"pHOU  hope  of  all  Humanity, 
1  What  of  all  this  that  meets  the  sight, 

The  blood,  the  tears,  the  misery  ? 

Raiment  of  needlework  outspread 
Wrought  curiously  with  golden  thread, 

That  my  bride  may  "be  fitly  adorned  to-night. 

But,  oh  thou  Bridegroom  of  the  Soul, 

What  of  the  sounds,  the  sounds  of  fear, 

The  groans  of  men,  the  bells  that  toll  ? 

Thou  hearest  the  minstrels  tune  their  lutes, 
Thou  hearest  the  young  men  try  their  flutes 

For  the  feast  of  the  marriage  that  draweth  near. 

Yet,  oh  thou  Bridegroom  of  the  Soul, 
What  of  the  mind's  captivity  ? 
What  of  the  spirit's  doubt  and  dole  ? 

Out  of  the  ebony  halls  of  night, 

Aloes,  cassia,  myrrh,  delight, 
The  bride  in  her  palace  of  ivory. 


ANNA  BUNSTON  593 

Then,  oh  thou  Bridegroom  of  the  Soul, 
What  of  the  songs  from  woods  new-clothed, 
The  laughing  flowers,  the  sunlit  knoll  ? 

My  footsteps  that  follow  along  the  shore, 

My  fingers  about  the  latch  and  door, 
My  face  at  the  window  of  my  betrothed. 


Under  a  Wiltshire  Apple  Ttee 

SOME  folk  as  can  afford, 
So  Pve  heard  say, 
Set  up  a  sort  of  cross 
Right  in  the  garden  way 
To  mind  'em  of  the  Lord. 


But  I,  when  I  do  see 

Thik  apple  tree 

An'  stoopin'  limb 

All  spread  wi'  moss, 

I  think  of  Him 

And  how  He  talks  wi'  me. 

I  think  of  God 

And  how  He  trod 

That  garden  long  ago  ; 

He  walked,  I  reckon,  to  and  fro 

And  then  sat  down 

Upon  the  groun' 

Or  some  low  limb 

What  suited  Him 

Such  as  you  see 


594  ANNA  BUNSTON 

On  many  a  tree, 
And  on  thik  very  one 
Where  I  at  set  o'  sun 
Do  sit  and  talk  wi'  He. 

And,  mornings  too,  I  rise  and  come 
An'  sit  down  where  the  branch  be  low ; 
A  bird  do  sing,  a  bee  do  hum, 
The  flowers  in  the  border  blow, 
And  all  my  heart 's  so  glad  and  clear 
As  pools  when  mists  do  disappear : 
As  pools  a-laughing  in  the  light 
When  mornin'  air  is  swep'  an'  bright, 
As  pools  what  got  all  Heaven  in  sight 
So's  my  heart's  cheer 
When  He  be  near. 

He  never  pushed  the  garden  door, 
He  left  no  footmark  on  the  floor  ; 
I  never  heard  'Un  stir  nor  tread 
And  yet  His  Hand  do  bless  my  head, 
And  when  'tis  time  for  work  to  start 
I  takes  Him  with  me  in  my  heart. 

And  when  I  die,  pray  God  I  see 
At  very  last  thik  apple  tree 
An'  stoopin'  limb, 
And  think  of  Him 
And  all  He  been  to  me. 


595 

DARRELL  FIGGIS 
Slaibh  Mor 

1  STOOD  among  the  ancient  hills, 
While  all  the  dusk  eve's  blue  array 
Swept  round  with  softly  rustling  wings 
To  still  the  glamour  of  the  day. 
The  murmur  of  persistent  rills, 
A  lone  thrush  with  his  communings 
Of  music,  folded  in  some  trees, 
A  piping  robin  ere  he  flew, 
And  the  soft  touch  of  a  calm  breeze 
Sighing  across  the  heavenly  view, 
Were  the  sole  voices  whispering  round 
The  slope  hills  with  reflective  sound, 
So  still  the  whole  earth  was  : 
So  very  still  it  was. 
The  solemn  conclave  of  the  hills, 
In  an  erect  fraternity, 
Expectant  of  the  hour  to  be, 
Were  trembling  in  the  calm  that  fills 
The  house  of  Being  with  its  peace. 
A  measured  rhythm  flowed  abroad 
From  old  Earth  of  the  heart  so  strong, 
That  was  itself  a  manner  of  song, 
Bidding  the  day's  tame  tumults  cease 
Before  the  coming  of  her  lord. 
The  throstle,  as  he  communed  low, 
Enchanted  seemed,  and  tranced,  and  spelled, 
To  catch  the  measure  of  that  flow 
That  from  the  mighty  heart  upwelled, 
That  his  own  song  thereby  should  be 
Lost  in  the  inner  immensity. 


596  DARRELL  FIGGIS 

The  trickling  music  of  the  rills 
Along  the  bosom  of  the  hills 
Was  to  that  larger  rhythm  bent, 
And  in  that  larger  silence  played. 
The  very  winds  that  came  and  went 
Were  in  their  courses  stayed, 
Hushed  in  a  mute  expectancy. 
The  silent  Earth  was  bent  in  prayer. 
And  I,  as  I  stood  there, 
Scarce  witting  what  my  body  knew, 
Was  hushed  to  adoration  too. 

Like  a  charmed  cadence  throbbing  low 

Along  her  scarred,  mute  visage  so, 

Flowed  the  Earth's  spirit  thro'  the  air 

Emerging  from  its  ancient  lair, — 

Flowed  round  the  dusk  and  glooming  hills 

That  stood  in  solemn  peacefulness, 

Flowed  thro'  the  shimmer  of  air  that  fills 

The  valleys  with  a  shadowy  tress, 

Flowed  up  where  stars  began  to  peep, 

Flowed  where  the  hushed  winds  lay  asleep, 

And  sank  again  while  peace  profound 

Wrapped  all  the  ancient  hills  around. 

Not  a  breath  stirred  ; 

No  voice  or  song  was  heard. 

It  was  a  silence  vaster  than  the  dead ; 

It  was  a  silence  where  in  all  its  power 

Being  raised  up  its  mighty  head  an  hour. 

And  I,  tho'  I  scarce  knew  what  chanced, 

Caught  in  the  measured  rhythm,  and  tranced, 

Was  yet  raised  to  a  terrible  dread 

Of  the  great  hush  that  wrapped  the  hills : 

That  spell  upon  the  standing  hills. 


DARRELL  FIGGIS  597 

I  could  have  fled,  but  that  the  awe 
Of  an  unfurling  and  strange  might 
Had  me  transfigured  in  its  law. 
And  yet  the  fear  that  stirred  in  me 
Was  mingled  with  a  wild  delight 
That  thrilled  with  very  ecstasy 
Thro'  every  nerve  and  vein  and  mesh 
Building  my  quivering  house  of  flesh. 

Then  a  strange  shudder  shook  the  hills. 

Some  movement  swayed  them  in  eclipse, 

As  tho'  a  dread  apocalypse 

Were  waiting  till  they  were  unfurled 

With  all  the  travail  of  the  world. 

They  were  transformed,  and  shadowy-high 

They  stood  there,  and  yet  floated  by ; 

While  from  some  inner  place  of  flame 

A  boom  of  distant  music  came 

Suddenly  thro'  the  air, 

And  huge  and  silent  chords  of  sound 

Soared  o'er  the  quivering  hills  around, 

As  I  hung  trembling  there. 

My  house  of  flesh  could  scarce  contain 

The  rolling  chords  that  swept  abroad 

And  undissolved  remain, 

My  joy  stirred  in  me  with  such  pain. 

Loosed  on  the  silence  that  had  been, 

Obeying  its  symphonic  lord, 

The  music  rolled  thro'  time  and  space, 

Booming  in  changing  chord  on  chord 

Amidst  a  silence  that  seemed  still 

Upon  the  old  Earth's  brooding  face. 

It  rolled  round  each  reverberate  hill ; 

It  crashed  its  high  symphonic  will 


598  DARRELL  FIGGIS 

And  floated  all  the  vales  between, 
In  clouds  of  colour  mounting  high, 
In  waves  of  music  sweeping  by, 
Booming  above  the  ancient  peace 
Betwixt  the  ancient  silences. 

What  chanced  I  do  not  know. 
How  is  it  I  should  know  ? 
Like  rolling  clouds  before  the  day 
The  booming  music  rolled  away  ; 
And,  like  a  storm  of  splendour  past, 
The  silence  seemed  yet  to  outlast 
The  music  it  had  ushered  so. — 
Then  slowly  the  wise  thrush  arose 
And  mused  away  the  evening's  close. 


CLIFFORD  BAX 
The  Meaning  of  Man 

Take  courage  ;  for  the  race  of  man  is  divine. 

The  Golden  Verses. 

DEAR  and  fair  as  Earth  may  be 
Not  from  out  her  womb  are  we, — 
Like  an  elder  sister  only,  like  a  foster-mother,  she, 
For  we  come  of  heavenly  lineage,  of  a  pure  undying  race, 
We  who  took  the  poppied  potion  of  our  life,  and  quaffing 

deep 
Move  enchanted  now  forever  in  the  shadow  world  of 

sleep, 

In  the  vast  and  lovely  vision  that  is  wrought  of  time  and 
space. 


CLIFFORD  BAX  599 

Overhead  the  sun  and  moon 

Shining  at  the  gates  of  birth 
Give  to  each  a  common  boon, — 

All  the  joy  of  earth  ; 
Mountains  lit  with  moving  light, 
Forest,  cavern,  cloud  and  river, 
Ebb  and  flow  of  day  and  night 

Around  the  world  forever. 

These  and  all  the  works  of  man  may  he  who  will  behold, 
Mighty  shapes  of  bygone  beauty,  songs  of  beaten  gold, 
Starlike  thoughts  that  once,  in  ages  gone,  were  found  by 

seer-sages, 
All  the  throng'd  and  murmuring  Past,  the  life  men  loved 

of  old. 
Yet  sometimes  at  the  birth  of  night  when  hours  of  heat 

and  splendour 

Melt  away  in  darkness,  and  the  flaming  sun  has  set 
Across  the  brooding  soul  will  sweep,  like  music  sad  and 

tender, 

Sudden  waves  of  almost  passionate  regret, 
For  then  the  hills  and  meadowlands,  the  trees  and  flowerf  ul 

grasses, 

All  the  world  of  wonder  that  our  eyes  have  gazed  upon, 
Seems    remote    and    mournful,   as    a   rainbow  when    it 

passes 
Leaves  the  heart  lamenting  for  the  beauty  come  and 

gone, 

And  in  the  deep  that  is  the  soul  there  surges  up  a  cry 
'  Whence  are  all  the  starry  legions  traversing  the  sky  ? 
Whence  the  olden  planets  and  the  sun  and  moon  and 

earth  ? 

Out  of  what  came  all  of  these  and  out  of  what  came  I  ? ' 
And  far  away  within  the  same  unfathomable  deep 
Comes  an  answer  rolling  '  Earth  and  moon  and  sun, 


600  CLIFFORD  BAX 

All  that  is,  that  has  been,  or  that  ever  time  shall  reap, 
Is  but  moving  home  again,  with  mighty  labours  done, 
The  Many  to  the  Everlasting  One.' 

And  this  is  the  meaning  of  man, 

The  task  of  the  soul, 
The  labour  of  worlds,  and  the  plan 

That  is  set  for  the  whole, 
For  the  spark  of  the  spirit  imprisoned  within  it, 

In  all  things  one  and  the  same, 
Aeon  by  aeon  and  minute  by  minute, 

Is  longing  to  leap  into  flame, 
To  shatter  the  limits  of  life  and  be  lost  in  a  glory  intense 

and  profound 

As  the  soul  with  a  cry  goes  out  into  music  and  seeks  to  be 
one  with  the  sound. 

For  as  those  that  are  sunken  deep 
In  the  green  dim  ocean  of  sleep, 

In  a  thousand  shapes  for  a  thousand  ages  the  one  great 
Spirit  is  bound. 
The  air  we  inhale  and  the  sea, 

The  warm  brown  earth  and  the  sun, 
Came  forth  at  the  Word  of  the  One 
From  the  same  First  Mother  as  we, 
And  now,  as  of  old  when  the  world  began 
The  stars  of  the  night  are  the  kindred  of  man, 
For  all  things  move  to  a  single  goal, 
The  giant  sun  or  the  thinking  soul. 
Ah  what  though  the  Tree  whose  rise  and  fall 
Of  sap  is  fed  from  the  Spirit  of  All, 
With  suns  for  blossoms  and  planets  for  leaves, 
Be  vaster  yet  than  the  mind  conceives  ? 
Earth  is  a  leaf  on  the  boundless  Tree, 
And  the  unborn  soul  of  the  earth  are  we. 


CLIFFORD  BAX  601 

O  man  is  a  hungering  exiled  people,  a  host  in  an  unknown 

land, 
A  wandering  mass  in  the  vast  with  only  a  black  horizon 

to  face, 
Yet  still,  though  we  toil  for  a  time  in  the  heat  over 

measureless  deserts  of  sand 

The  longing  for  beauty  that  shines  in  the  soul  is  the 
guiding-star  of  the  race. 

It  is  this  that  alone  may  redeem 

A  world  ignoble  with  strife, 
This  only  bring  all  that  we  dream 
From  the  shattered  chaos  of  life. 
And  this  that  forever  shall  spur  us  and  lead  us  from  peak 

unto  peak  on  the  way 
Till  body  and  spirit  be  welded  in  one  and  -the  long  Night 

fall  on  the  Day, 
And  all  the  sonorous  music  of  time,  the  hills  and  the  woods 

and  the  wind  and  the  sea, 
The  one  great  song  of  the  whole  creation,  of  all  that  is 

and  that  yet  shall  be, 
Chanted  aloud  as  a  paean  of  joy  by  the  Being  whose  home 

is  the  vast 

Shall  tremble  away  in  silence,  and  all  be  gone  at  the  last, 
Save  only  afar  in  the  Heart  of  the  Singer  of  whom  it  was 

chanted  and  heard 
Remembrance  left  of  the  music  as  a  sunset-fire  in  the 

west, 
Remembrance  left  of  the  mighty  Enchanted  Palace  that 

rose  at  His  Word, 
This,  and  a  joy  everlasting,  an  immense  inviolate  rest. 


ELSA  BARKER 
He  'who  knows  Love 

HE  who  knows  Love — becomes  Love,  and  his  eyes 
Behold  Love  in  the  heart  of  everyone, 
Even  the  loveless  :   as  the  light  of  the  sun 
Is  one  with  all  it  touches.    He  is  wise 
With  undivided  wisdom,  for  he  lies 

In  Wisdom's  arms.    His  wanderings  are  done, 
For  he  has  found  the  Source  whence  all  things  run — 
The  guerdon  of  the  quest,  that  satisfies. 

He  who  knows  Love  becomes  Love,  and  he  knows 
All  beings  are  himself,  twin-born  of  Love. 

Melted  in  Love's  own  fire,  his  spirit  flows 
Into  all  earthly  forms,  below,  above  ; 

He  is  the  breath  and  glamour  of  the  rose, 
He  is  the  benediction  of  the  dove. 


The  Slumberer 

OTHOU  mysterious  One,  lying  asleep 
Within  the  lonely  chamber  of  my  soul ! 
Thou  art  my  life's  true  goal, 
Thine  is  the  only  altar  that  I  keep. 
Rapt  in  the  contemplation  of  thy  repose, 
I  see  in  thy  still  face  that  Mystic  Rose 
Whose  perfume  is  my  soul's  imaginings, 
And  Beauty  at  whose  awesomeness  I  weep 
With  over-plenitude  of  ecstasy. 
Thy  slumber  is  the  great  world-mystery — 


ELSA  BARKER  603 

The  paradigm  of  all  the  latent  things 

That  in  their  destined  hour  Time  magnifies : 

Its  emblems  are  the  intimate  hush  that  lies 

Over  the  moonlit  lake  ; 

The  wonder  and  the  ache 

Of  unborn  love  that  trembles  in  its  sleep ; 

The  hope  that  thrills  the  heavy  earth 

With  presage  of  becoming,  and  vast  birth ; 

The  secret  of  the  caverns  of  the  deep. 


The  Mystic  Rose 

I,  WOMAN,  am  that  wonder-breathing  rose 
That  blossoms  in  the  garden  of  the  King. 
In  all  the  world  there  is  no  lovelier  thing, 
And  the  learned  stars  no  secret  can  disclose 
Deeper  than  mine — that  almost  no  one  knows. 
The  perfume  of  my  petals  in  the  spring 
Is  inspiration  to  all  bards  that  sing 
Of  love,  the  spirit's  lyric  unrepose. 

Under  my  veil  is  hid  the  mystery 

Of  unaccomplished  aeons,  and  my  breath 
The  Master-Lover's  life  replenisheth. 
The  mortal  garment  that  is  worn  by  me 
The  loom  of  Time  renews  continually ; 

And  when  I  die — the  universe  knows  death. 


604  ELSA  BARKER 


Microprosopos 

BEHIND  the  orient  darkness  of  thine  eyes, 
The  eyes  of  God  interrogate  my  soul 
With  whelming  love.    The  luminous  waves  that  roll 
Over  thy  body  are  His  dream.    It  lies 
On  thee  as  the  moon-glamour  on  the  skies ; 
And  all  around — the  yearning  aureole 
Of  His  effulgent  being — broods  the  whole 
Rapt  universe,  that  our  love  magnifies. 

O  thou,  through  whom  for  me  Infinity 
Is  manifest !    Bitter  and  salt,  thy  tears 
Are  the  heart-water  of  the  passionate  spheres, 

With  all  their  pain.    I  drink  them  thirstily ! 

While  in  thy  smile  is  realized  for  me 
The  flaming  joys  of  archangelic  years. 


PAUL  HOOKHAM 

A  Meditation 

Self  is  Peace  ;   that  Self  am  I. 
J.  The  Self  is  Strength  ;   that  Self  am  I.' 
What  needs  this  trembling  strife 
With  phantom  threats  of  Form  and  Time  and  Space  ? 

Could  once  my  Life 
Be  shorn  of  their  illusion,  and  efface 
From  its  clear  heaven  that  stormful  imagery, 

My  Self  were  seen 
An  Essence  free,  unchanging,  strong,  serene. 


PAUL  HOOKHAM  605 

The  Self  is  Peace.    How  placid  dawns 

The  Summer's  parent  hour 
Over  the  dewy  maze  that  drapes  the  fields, 

Each  drooped  wild  flower, 
Or  where  the  lordship  of  the  garden  shields 
Select  Court  beauties  and  exclusive  lawns  ! 

'Tis  but  the  show 
And  fitful  dream  of  Peace  the  Self  can  know. 

The  Self  is  Strength.    Let  Nature  rave, 

And  tear  her  maddened  breast, 
Now  doom  the  drifting  ship,  with  blackest  frown, 

Or  now,  possessed 

With  rarer  frenzy,  wreck  the  quaking  town, 
And  bury  quick  beneath  her  earthy  wave — 

She  cannot  break 
One  fibre  of  that  Strength,  one  atom  shake. 

The  Self  is  one  with  the  Supreme 

Father  in  fashioning, 
Though  clothed  in  perishable  weeds  that  feel 

Pain's  mortal  sting, 

The  unlifting  care,  the  wound  that  will  not  heal ; 
Yet  these  are  not  the  Self — they  only  seem. 

From  faintest  jar 
Of  whirring  worlds  the  true  Self  broods  afar. 

Afar  he  whispers  to  the  mind 
To  rest  on  the  Good  Law, 
To  know  that  naught  can  fall  without  its  range, 

Nor  any  flaw 

Of  Chance  disturb  its  reign,  or  shadow  of  Change  ; 
That  what  can  bind  the  life  the  Law  must  bind — 

Whatever  hand 
Dispose  the  lot,  it  is  by  that  Command ; 


6o6  PAUL  HOOKHAM 

To  know  no  suffering  can  beset 

Our  lives,  that  is  not  due. 
That  is  not  forged  by  our  own  act  and  will ; 

Calmly  to  view 

Whate'er  betide  of  seeming  good  or  ill. 
The  worst  we  can  conceive  but  pays  some  debt, 

Or  breaks  some  seal, 
To  free  us  from  the  bondage  of  the  Wheel. 


WILFRED  ROWLAND  CHILDE 

Foreword 

A  Song  of  the  Little  City 

Ar  intervals  of  tunes 
And  under  lonely  towers, 
Where  silences  of  noons 
Cover  their  secret  flowers, 
In  places  no  one  knows, 
Where  winding  ways  go  down, 
In  the  dim  heart  of  a  rose, 
I  find  the  Little  Town. 

When  my  soul  wearieth 
Of  cities  proud  and  great, 
Whose  skies  are  dark  as  death, 
But  gold  is  in  their  gate  : 
When  my  soul  sorry  is 
For  ships  of  great  renown, 
And  rich  men's  palaces, 
I  seek  the  Little  Town. 


WILFRED  ROWLAND  CHILDE  607 

Upon  a  hill  it  stands, 
Built  up  with  quiet  walls, 
Guarding  inviolate  lands, 
A  place  of  festivals, 
A  place  of  happy  bells, 
Where  comes  no  earthly  one, 
Beyond  the  heavens  and  hells, 
Between  the  moon  and  sun. 

Between  the  moon  and  sun, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  stars, 
Where  comes  not  any  one, 
Nor  roll  the  great  world's  cars. 
With  an  angel  all  day  through, 
That  wears  a  golden  crown, 
And  is  robed  in  red  and  blue, 
I  find  the  Little  Town. 

Fountains  are  playing  there, 
And  children  dance  all  day, 
Who  are  far  lovelier 
Than  any  fabled  fay, 
And  in  their  festivals 
Far,  far  away  behold, 
From  the  high  carven  walls, 
Dim  mountains  made  of  gold 

And  high  above  it  all, 
With  arches  rich  and  fine, 
A  minster  towering  tall 
Proclaims  the  place  divine  : 
Where  none  to  veil  Him  be, 
And  the  birds  of  Eden  sing, 
I  find  the  lord  of  me, 
The  Little  City's  King. 


608  WILFRED  ROWLAND  CHILDE 


Turris  Rburnea 

A  Song  of  God's  Fool  the  Mystic 

MY  soul  is  like  a  fenced  tower, 
And  holds  a  secret  room : 
I  hide  me  in  it  many  an  hour 
Amid  its  dim  perfume  : 
I  have  my  holy  bloom, 
The  Rose  of  Heaven  in  flower : 
I  hold  my  inner  bower 
In  strait  and  dreaming  gloom, 
My  soul  my  fenced  tower. 

The  Rose  of  soil  angelical, 
That  shines  not  over  earth, 
I  have  its  buds  and  petals  all, 
Inestimable  of  worth, 
Its  blood-red  calyces 
Dyed  with  the  wine  of  God, 
Roots  earthy  from  that  sod, 
Which  dews  in  Syon  bless, 
And  leaves  of  loveliness. 

Its  radiant  heart  unfolds  to  me, 
Its  starry  soul  is  plain 
In  glimmering  felicity, 
Dyed  deep  with  love  and  pain  : 
And  while  my  glad  eyes  gaze 
Upon  its  petalled  crown, 
I  hear  a  song  come  down 
With  thanksgiving  and  praise 
Of  the  celestial  town. 


WILFRED  ROWLAND  CHILDE  609 

The  moon,  that  torch  Dianian, 
Dreams  ever  paganly : 
But  I  am  only  a  simple  man 
In  a  white  tower  by  the  sea  : 
There  comes  a  liturgy, 
Even  for  a  little  span, 
Great  voices  Christian, 
Songs  of  my  Lord  to  me, 
To  me,  a  simple  man. 

A  tower  of  ivory  it  is 
Beside  a  shoreless  sea : 
I  look  out  of  my  lattices 
And  the  saints  appear  to  me, 
A  singing  company 
From  heaven's  high  palaces, 
Chaunting  their  litanies : 
White  luting  Cecily 
Their  first  choir-maiden  is. 

The  sea-wave  crashes  in  my  ears ; 
Again  their  viols  cease  : 
I  have  been  here  for  endless  years, 
And  the  room  is  full  of  peace. 
Dim-sliding  harmonies 
And  dreaming  voice  of  seers 
Come  past  all  barriers  : 
With  God  I  have  no  fears, 
And  round  me  roll  His  seas. 


MYST. 


6io 

SAROJINI  NAYADU 

The  Soul's  Prayer 

IN  childhood's  pride  I  said  to  Thee : 
*  O  Thou,  who  mad'st  me  of  Thy  breath, 
Speak,  Master,  and  reveal  to  me 
Thine  inmost  laws  of  life  and  death. 

*  Give  me  to  drink  each  joy  and  pain 
Which  Thine  eternal  hand  can  mete, 
For  my  insatiate  soul  would  drain 
Earth's  utmost  bitter,  utmost  sweet. 

*  Spare  me  no  bliss,  no  pang  of  strife, 
Withhold  no  gift  or  grief  I  crave, 
The  intricate  lore  of  love  and  life 
And  mystic  knowledge  of  the  grave.' 

Lord,  Thou  didst  answer  stern  and  low : 
'  Child,  I  will  hearken  to  thy  prayer, 
And  thy  unconquered  soul  shall  know 
All  passionate  rapture  and  despair. 

'  Thou  shalt  drink  deep  of  joy  and  fame, 
And  love  shall  burn  thee  like  a  fire, 
And  pain  shall  cleanse  thee  like  a  flame, 
To  purge  the  dross  from  thy  desire. 

'  So  shall  thy  chastened  spirit  yearn 
To  seek  from  its  blind  prayer  release, 
And  spent  and  pardoned,  sue  to  learn 
The  simple  secret  of  My  peace. 

*  I,  bending  from  my  sevenfold  height, 
Will  teach  thee  of  My  quickening  grace, 
Life  is  a  prism  of  My  light, 

And  Death  the  shadow  of  My  face? 


SAROJINI  NAYADU  61 

In  Salutation  to  the  Eternal  'Peace 

MEN  say  the  world  is  full  of  fear  and  hate, 
And  all  life's  ripening  harvest-fields  await 
The  restless  sickle  of  relentless  fate. 

But  I,  sweet  Soul,  rejoice  that  I  was  born, 
When  from  the  climbing  terraces  of  corn 
I  watch  the  golden  orioles  of  Thy  morn. 

What  care  I  for  the  world's  desire  and  pride, 
Who  know  the  silver  wings  that  gleam  and  glide, 
The  homing  pigeons  of  Thine  eventide  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  world's  loud  weariness, 
Who  dream  in  twilight  granaries  Thou  dost  bless 
With  delicate  sheaves  of  mellow  silences  ? 

Say,  shall  I  heed  dull  presages  of  doom, 

Or  dread  the  rumoured  loneliness  and  gloom, 

The  mute  and  mythic  terror  of  the  tomb  ? 

For  my  glad  heart  is  drunk  and  drenched  with  Thee, 
O  inmost  wine  of  living  ecstasy ! 
O  intimate  essence  of  eternity  1 

To  a  Buddha  seated  on  a  Lotus 

ERD  BUDDHA,  on  thy  lotus-throne, 
With  praying  eyes  and  hands  elate, 
What  mystic  rapture  dost  thou  own, 
Immutable  and  ultimate  ? 
What  peace,  unravished  of  our  ken, 
Annihilate  from  the  world  of  men  ? 

X  2 


612  SAROJINI  NAYADU 

The  wind  of  change  for  ever  blows 

Across  the  tumult  of  our  way, 

To-morrow's  unborn  griefs  depose 

The  sorrows  of  our  yesterday. 

Dream  yields  to  dream,  strife  follows  strife, 

And  Death  unweaves  the  webs  of  Life. 

For  us  the  travail  and  the  heat, 
The  broken  secrets  of  our  pride, 
The  strenuous  lessons  of  defeat, 
The  flower  deferred,  the  fruit  denied ; 
But  not  the  peace,  supremely  won, 
Lord  Buddha,  of  thy  Lotus-throne. 

With  futile  hands  we  seek  to  gain 

Our  inaccessible  desire, 

Diviner  summits  to  attain, 

With  faith  that  sinks  and  feet  that  tire 

But  nought  shall  conquer  or  control 

The  heavenward  hunger  of  our  soul. 

The  end,  elusive  and  afar, 

Still  lures  us  with  its  beckoning  flight, 

And  all  our  mortal  moments  are 

A  session  of  the  Infinite. 

How  shall  we  reach  the  great,  unknown 

Nirvana  of  thy  Lotus-throne  ? 


R.  A.  ERIC  SHEPHERD 

Intimations 

I  THINK  that  in  the  savour  of  some  flowers 
God  hides  the  loveliness  we  fain  would  know  ; 
And  that  He  makes  it  poignant  with  His  showers 
To  lure  us  on  toward  what  He  longs  to  show. 
I  know  He  seeks  in  tiny  wistful  airs 
To  give  my  soul  bright  gleams  of  what  shall  be, 
And  that  in  plainsong  endings  quick  despairs 
Glitter  like  angels  o'er  a  shadowed  sea. 
There  is  no  thing  God  may  not  make  His  own 
That  smelleth  sweet  and  is  of  good  report.  .  .  . 
The  leastest  thing  that  we  have  longest  known 
May  truth  reveal  beyond  the  range  of  thought. 
And  so  each  tiniest  act  and  merest  ploy 
May  grow  instinct  with  sacramental  joy  1 

C.  M.  VERSCHOYLE 
Crucifixion  on  the  Mountain 

The  soul  would  endure  splendid  martyrdoms,  but  her  Lord  lays 
upon  her  the  ultimate  reward  of  failure  and  of  death. 

I    FOUND  full  many  a  hindrance  on  the  road 
That  led  up  to  the  summit  of  desire, 
Sharp  rocks  and  Wounding  thorns ;  and  in  the  mire 
I  fell,  and  soiled  the  garment  I  had  care 
To  keep  so  fair 

For  the  great  rites  awaiting  me  in  Love's  abode. 
Yet  on  I  pressed, 
Dreaming  of  rest 
That  should  be  sweeter  for  toil  undergone, 

When  on  my  Saviour's  breast 
Divine  and  human  should  be  one. 


6i4  C.  M.  VERSCHOYLE 

Deep  ran  the  chasms  across  the  way, 

Chasms  my  wilfulness  had  made, 
But  Love  had  cast  a  bridge  above  the  spray 
Flung  by  the  roaring  waters  far  below  ; 
And  with  the  cross  my  strength,  the  cross  my  guide, 
My  worser  self  for  ever  crucified, 

I  climbed  toward  the  line  of  snow 

That  Love  had  laid 
Far  up,  to  mark  the  final  stage 

Of  chill  forlorn  desertion,  that  should  close 
My  pilgrimage. 

High  on  the  summit  shone  the  mystic  cross 
Beside  which  life  is  death,  and  riches  dross  ; 

Not  such  the  cross  that  companies  my  way, 

A  harsh  rude  copy  meet  for  every  day, 
Beauty  it  lacks,  untrimmed  and  harsh  the  wood, 
And  bitter  as  Christ's  rood  ; 
Heavy  as  death,  no  staff  to  life  is  this, 

But  such  a  weight 

As  leaves  the  soul  unsoothed,  disconsolate, 
And  drags  the  body  down  to  the  abyss. 

Upward  I  crawl,  the  dream  of  joy  is  past, 
I,  that  would  share  the  sorrow  of  my  Lord 
And  feel  the  piercing  sword 

Divide  my  flesh  and  spirit,  now  at  last, 
Discern  the  failure  I  am  forced  to  share, 
And  see  the  garment  I  would  keep  so  fair, 

Foul  from  the  dirt  of  many  a  foolish  fall 

The  world  might  mock  at.    When  I  set  my  feet 

Upon  the  path  I  said — 
A  martyrdom  were  sweet  ; 

Come  sword,  come  fire, 


C.  M.  VERSCHOYLE  615 

All  tortures  are  less  sharp  than  my  desire. 

Let  me  have  flints  for  bed, 

And  thorns,  such  as  once  wove  my  Master's  crown, 
Spurring  me  on  to  share  in  His  renown. 

And  lo  !   I  faint 

Beneath  a  common  cross  I  cannot  raise. 
Mankind  might  jeer,  but  on  celestial  praise 

Free  from  all  envious  taint 
I  counted  ;   wherefore  then  this  loneliness 

Weighted  with  death  ? 
Give  me  the  nails,  the  spear,  oppress 

My  soul  with  every  pang  till  my  last  breath, 

And  then,  the  victor's  wreath. 

Yet  I  climbed  still,  the  bitter  words  I  spoke 
Fell  into  silence  and  no  echoes  woke  ; 

But  in  my  heart  a  small  voice  murmuring 

Whispered, — thy  King 
Humbly  exchanged  celestial  gain  for  loss, 

Requiring  no  place  to  lay  Him  down, 

No  victor's  crown, 
But  only  wood  enough  to  make  a  cross. 

I  bowed  my  head  in  shame,  and  upward  went 
Slowly,  beneath  my  burden  bent ; 

Deep  in  the  snow  my  bleeding  feet 

Sank  at  each  step,  and  on  the  sheet 
Of  dazzling  white  left  scarlet  stains. 
My  eyes  grew  blind,  my  trembling  knees  gave  way, 
My  body  was  a  mass  of  fiery  pains  : 
And  still  I  rose  and  fell, 

And  struggled  on  a  space, 
Half  dreaming  broken  words  from  far  away, 


616  C.  M.  VERSCHOYLE 

The  heavenward  way, — 
The  pains  of  hell, — 

And  murmuring,  weeping,  falling, 

Upon  my  Master  calling, 
Unconscious  now  of  all  save  agony, 
I  still  endured,  until  I  lay 

On  the  appointed  place 
Upon  the  summit,  faint  and  like  to  die. 

So,  I  thought,  heaven  is  won, 

Gone  is  the  burden  that  so  long  I  carried  ; 

Yet  still  the  summoning  angels  tarried. 
I  lay  alone, 
Almost  desiring  back  the  fardel  gone, 

That  was  my  bliss  and  bale  ; 
And  so  methought  a  thousand  years 

Of  silence  passed. 

At  last 

I  raised  my  eyes  to  see 
Some  angel  that  should  bind  my  wounds  and  wipe  my 

tears, 

But  there  was  Calvary, 
And  black  and  gaunt  three  crosses  rose 
Untenanted,  among  the  snows. 

Then,  deep  within,  the  silence  spoke, — 

Now  thou  hast  left  Gethsemane, 

Stretch  thy  rebellious  limbs  upon  the  tree, 

Giving  thy  body  up  for  Me. 
And  I  obeyed, 
And  laid 

My  feet  and  hands  to  bear  the  stroke 
Of  piercing  nails. 

And  so  I  hung  another  thousand  years. 


C.  M.  VERSCHOYLE  617 

The  wind  arose,  and  far  below  me  tossed 

A  sea  of  sombre-crested  pines  ;    the  cloudy  skies 

Burst  with  the  gale,  and  showed  an  orange  rent, 

And  heavy  clouds,  like  boats  with  tattered  sails, 

Flapped  low,  and  dipped  and  raced  about  the  height 
Until  they  sank  in  mist  that  swathed  my  sight. 

Then  I  closed  my  eyes, 

And  tore  my  way  from  the  poor  earthly  tent, 
And  free,  I  knew  my  labours  all  well  spent, 

And  no  pang  lost. 

Abandoned  hung  the  earthly  form 

While  round  it  swayed  and  shrieked  the  storm  ; 

But  my  soul,  being  free, 

Rejoiced  most  thankfully, 
Until  a  voice  cried, — nay, 
Still  must  thou  lay 

Thy  soul  upon  the  rood. 
So  my  stripped  soul  was  fastened  there, 

And  that  cross  stood 

Beside  the  centre,  towering  gaunt  and  bare 
While  other  thousand  years  went  by ; 
Till  my  purged  spirit  burst  its  sheath, 
And  free  of  soul  and  body  knelt  beneath 
The  triple  emblem  of  a  conquered  death. 

Now  let  my  spirit  rise  to  God  who  gave — 
Not  through  the  grave, 

But  upward  into  light. 
Aye,  chanted  seraphs  with  their  dulcimers, 
The  ladder  it  prefers 

Is  the  great  midmost  cross. 
My  spirit  trembled,  but  I  clomb — 

Ah,  then  fell  night ; 
This,  this  is  not  my  home. 


618  C.  M.  VERSCHOYLE 

And  in  a  horror  far  too  deep  to  tell 

I  knew  the  pains  of  hell, 

And  for  a  thousand  years  I  drank  this  bitter  cup, 
Until  my  spirit  yielded  itself  up, 

And  hands  of  love 

Stretched  from  above 
Upraised  me  in  a  most  delicious  rest, 

Upon  that  cross  and  ladder  of  delight, 
Which  now  I  knew  was  but  my  Master's  breast. 


The  Deliverer 

THE  city  quakes,  the  earth  is  filled  with  blood — 
I,  I  that  love  Thee  raised  Thee  on  this  Rood !) 

Lord,  7  am  least  of  all  Thy  followers, 
Yet  greatest  in  my  love  :   devotion  spurs 

Me  on  to  strange  deep  thoughts  and  stranger  deeds 
My  roughness  planned  not  erst, 
For  all  unversed 

In  ways  of  love  I  would  content  Thy  needs, 
Delight  Thee  with  a  flower,  a  word,  a  song, 
Striving  to  make  Thy  toilsome  way  less  long, 

Its  stones  less  bitter,  its  rebuffs  less  rude, 

To  guard  Thee  'gainst  the  sharp  ingratitude 
Of  those  who  beg  Time  and  Eternity, 
Both  worlds  at  once,  abusing  clemency. 

Dazzle  them,  Master,  with  a  word 
Such  as  the  universe  has  never  heard  ; 

Whisper  it  till  the  earth's  foundations  quake, 

And  fiery  worlds  awake 

And  shake 


C.  M.  VERSCHOYLE  619 

Their  burning  pinions,  and  ring  out  the  cry 

That  shrilly  echoes 

Where  between  whirling  planets  flows 
The  ardent  stream  of  palpitating  light. 

Destroy  the  worlds,  Oh  Lord, 

With  the  one  whispered  word, 
And  with  consuming  flame  illume  the  sight 

Of  all  those  muddy  souls  who  love  Thee  not : 
Or  bid  the  flying  circles  cease 
And  a  great  peace 

Thunder  across  immensity, 
Enwrapping  heaven  and  earth  and  sky. 

Bid  the  air  cease  to  hum 

And  all  the  murmuring  orbs  be  dumb, 
Suddenly,  utterly, 

And  shatter  them  with  silence — 

Yea,  Master,  I  have  borne  to  see  Thee  weep, 
More  deep 

The  iron  scarce  could  pierce  my  suffering  soul ; 
Have  seen  Thee  fast  and  pray, 

Struggle  and  sweat. 
While  the  eleven  slept  the  night  away 

My  brow  was  wet, 
My  heart  beat  high, 

For,  lo,  I  read 

The  scroll  of  Heaven  emblazoned, 
And  knew  Thy  triumph  nigh — 

(The  city  quakes,  the  air  is  full  of  blood — 

I,  I  that  love  Thee  raised  Thee  on  this  Rood  !) 

Scourged,  spit  upon,  denied, 

I  suffered  all  with  Thee  ; 
Raising  Thee  high  that  all  should  bend  the  knee. 


620  C.  M.  VERSCHOYLE 

That  very  royal  crown  of  thorns 

That  crimsoneth  Thy  brow — 
So  might  gleam  rubies  set  on  snow, — 

I  offered  it ;   dear  Master,  look  on  me, 

Say,  have  I  not  done  well  ? 

How  my  poor  heart  would  swell 
At  praise  from  Thee — 

For  see,  without  my  deed, 
Thy  deed  had  not  been  done  ; 
This  be  my  meed 

Thy  battle  won — 
And  that  down  future  ages,  lighted  by  the  torch 

That  Thou  dost  kindle,  men  shall  say — 

(The  city  quaked,  the  air  was  full  of  blood, 
Judas  that  loved  Him  raised  Him  on  the  Rood  !) 

Peter  in  the  porch 

Warmed  his  chilled  hands  as  he  denied, 
While  Judas'  teeth  did  chatter  before  Caiaphas ; 
My  darkness  seemed  a  heavy  monstrous  mass 

With  but  one  quivering  light — Thy  tortured  death — 

Ay,  for  it  pierced  beneath 
My  heart  into  my  spirit — yet  I  knew 
Before  the  worlds  that  task  I  had  to  do  ; 

God  set  it  me,  let  me  fulfil 

His  very  bitter  will — 

Master,  my  voice  is  harsh,  mine  eyes  are  dim, 

I  should  rejoice  and  hymn 

Thy  great  uplifting,  high  above  all  towers — 
Follow  the  circle  round,  there  Judas  cowers, 

Lonely,  forsaken,  outcast,  anguish-swayed  ; 

Yet  we  are  one,  betrayer  and  Betrayed  ; 


C.  M.  VERSCHOYLE  621 

Thou  drinkest  of  my  cup,  I  drink  of  Thine, 

Thou  art  immortal,  I  shall  be  divine  ; 
Dreaming,  Thou  risest  from  Thy  painful  Throne, 
Waking,  Thou  drawest  to  Thee  me,  Thine  own. 

I  kissed  Thee  gently — Thou  hast  understood  ? 
Out  on  the  silly  cowards  who  deserted  Thee, 

Whom  men  call  good. 
Thou  and  I  are  free, 
We  see  not  as  the  others  see, 

We  dream — 
And  that  is  times  away. 

Far  down  the  stream 
Of  heavenly  ways  we  see  our  paths  unite 

Where  the  veils  fall,  and  day 
For  me  replaces  night — 

(The  city  quakes,  the  earth  is  full  of  blood — 
I,  I  that  love  Thee  raised  Thee  on  this  Rood  !) 

Farewell,  my  Love,  my  Master,  I  have  dared 

For  Thee  that  lesser  men  had  left  undone, 
Be  my  love  hereby  proved,  I  have  not  spared 

To  give  my  God  where  God  but  gave  His  Son. 
I  bear  such  pains,  my  body  was  not  formed 

To  see  the  struggles  of  a  dying  God, 
Or  hold  the  terror  of  a  prisoned  soul 

Striving  for  freedom  :    I  am  fain 

Of  silence,  and  the  peace  of  night  again. 
Night  brooding  over  Galilee, 
And  our  small  company 
Each  with  his  portioned  dole 

Quietly  laid  about  Thee  on  the  sod, 
Beneath  which,  now,  there  is  no  peace  for  me, 

For  Thou  and  I  have  work  to  do — Oh  God  ! 


622  C.  M.  VERSCHOYLE 

Forsaken,  helpless,  therefore  doubly  to  be  loved — 
See  how  I  yearn  o'er  Thee  ! 

Yet  are  Thy  throes  soon  past, 

And  mine,  aeonial,  scarce  begun, 
For  where  Thy  name  is  honoured,  I  am  cursed  ; 

Outcast,  reviled,  I  down  the  ages  go, 
Death  but  delivers  me  to  greater  woe. 

But  where  Thy  passion  is  rehearsed 
Our  names  are  linked  still, 
And  Thine  shall  such  a  heavenly  dew  distil 

That  mine  shall  be  washed  pure  and  sweet  some  day, 
And  children's  lips  sing  '  Judas ',  like  a  kiss, 

But  in  no  softer  way 

Than  fell  that  kiss  with  which  I  did  betray 
Thy  sad  humanity, 
Freeing  the  Godhead  for  eternity — 

(The  city  quakes,  the  air  is  full  of  blood, — 
Judas  that  loves  Thee  raised  Thee  on  this  Rood  !) 

These  triumphs  are  too  keen,  we  die, 

So  sharp  the  sacrifice,  the  agony. 

Keep  Thou  the  hapless  Judas  in  Thy  heart, 

Nor  fail  me  on  that  far-off  day 

When  all  that  erred  in  my  sad  deed  is  purged  away. 
My  lowly  part 

Was  just  to  make  the  sacrifice  complete, 

Adding  to  heavenly  stature  earthly  feet  : 
Thou  art  uplifted,  I  shall  be  cast  down, 
Master,  farewell,  until  my  destined  crown 

Is  won,  and  all  Thou  strivest  for  fulfilled. 

I  am  not  worthy  that  my  blood  be  spilled 
Like  Thine  :   in  grosser  pangs  be  spirit  torn 
From  my  gross  body,  let  the  wide  world  scorn 


C.  M.  VERSCHOYLE  623 

So  I  but  join  Thee  aeons  after 
Where  the  soft  laughter 

Of  the  redeemed  echoes  about  the  heavenly  space ; 

And  find,  crouched  at  Thy  feet,  a  little  quiet  place. 
Then,  when  my  courage  grows,  after  awhile, 
Murmur  to  me,  with  Thy  celestial  smile — 

Judas  !   for  the  great  love  I  bear  to  Thee 
I  grant  thee  to  be  crucified  with  Me  ! 


AMY  K.  CLARKE 

'  Vision  of  Him  3 

THROUGH  the  Uncreated, 
Uncleft,  Untrod, 
Breathed  for  a  moment 
Sorrow  of  God. 

And  lo  !   it  fell  starlike — 

Trembling  to  cease 
In  His  Infinite  gladness 

Infinite  peace. 

Out  of  that  tremor 

Time  was  made, 
Worlds  crept  into  being 

Young  and  afraid. 

Slowly,  by  beauty, 

His  creatures  grew  wise, 
Slow  dawned  its  wonder 

On  opening  eyes. 


624  AMY  K.  CLARKE 

Men  watched  adoring 

His  waters  roll, 
Deep  flowed  His  colours 

Through  sense  and  soul. 

Moan  of  creation — 
Rapture  that  stirs — 

Blindly  they  learned  it, 
Years  upon  years. 

Till  clearly  one  spirit 
Cried  on  His  Name 

From  all  her  lovely 
And  earthly  frame. 

Light  could  not  veil  it, 
Nor  darkness  dim, 

Flesh  but  receive  it — 
Vision  of  Him. 

Deep  sunk  His  answer, 

The  Word  that  sufficed— 

Out  of  her  Body 
Cometh  His  Christ. 


RUTH  TEMPLE  LINDSAY 
The  Hunters 

'  The  Devil,  as  a  roaring  lion,  goeth  about  seeking  whom  he 
may  devour.' 

"'HE  Lion,  he  prowleth  far  and  near, 
L  Nor  swerves  for  pain  or  rue  ; 
He  heedeth  nought  of  sloth  nor  fear, 
He  prowleth — prowleth  through 


RUTH  TEMPLE  LINDSAY  625 

The  silent  glade  and  the  weary  street, 

In  the  empty  dark  and  the  full  noon  heat ; 

And  a  little  Lamb  with  aching  Feet — 
He  prowleth  too. 

The  Lion  croucheth  alert,  apart — 

With  patience  doth  he  woo  ; 
He  waiteth  long  by  the  shuttered  heart, 

And  the  Lamb — He  waiteth  too. 
Up  the  lurid  passes  of  dreams  that  kill, 

Through  the  twisting  maze  of  the  great  Untrue, 
The  Lion  followeth  the  fainting  will — 

And  the  Lamb — He  followeth  too. 

From  the  thickets  dim  of  the  hidden  way 

Where  the  debts  of  Hell  accrue, 
The  Lion  leapeth  upon  his  prey  : 

But  the  Lamb — He  leapeth  too. 
Ah  !  loose  the  leash  of  the  sins  that  damn, 

Mark  Devil  and  God  as  goals, 
In  the  panting  love  of  a  famished  Lamb, 

Gone  mad  with  the  need  of  souls. 

The  Lion,  he  strayeth  near  and  far ; 

What  heights  hath  he  left  untrod  ? 
He  crawleth  nigh  to  the  purest  star, 

On  the  trail  of  the  saints  of  God. 
And  throughout  the  darkness  of  things  unclean, 

In  the  depths  where  the  sin-ghouls  brood, 
There  prowleth  ever  with  yearning  mien — 

A  Lamb  as  white  as  Blood  1 


HORACE  HOLLEY 
The  Stricken  King 

OWHAT  am  I  that  the  cold  wind  affrays, 
O  What  am  I  the  ocean  could  confound 
A  fort  so  open  to  the  rebel  days 
And  nature's  mutiny  and  human  wound  ? 

0  What  am  I  so  weak  against  the  world, 

Yea,  weaker  in  my  heart  that  should  be  strong, 
On  whom  this  double  warfare  is  unfurled, 
Of  outer  violence  first,  then  inward  wrong  ? 

1  am  a  fair,  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  God 
One  moment  visible  in  mortal  state, 

A  bit  of  heaven  caught  i'  the  prison-clod, 

That  I  nor  nature's  self  may  violate ; 

Ev'n  as  a  jewel  lost  from  kingly  crown 

That 's  royal  still,  though  fingered  by  a  clown. 


We  of  the  world  who  shuffle  to  our  doom, 
Who  dull  with  common  lead  the  gold  of  time, 
Despoiling  where  we  may  the  tender  bloom 
Of  all  unworldly  souls  that  rise  sublime  ; 
Still  scourging  wisdom  nobler  than  our  use 
And  scorning  pity  bent  on  our  despair, 
Fouling  earth's  seldom  beauty  by  abuse 
In  rage  at  strength  too  strong,  at  fair  too  fair ; 
Nathless  we  suffer  pain  with  them  we  slay, 
And  more  than  they,  as  we  their  death  survive. 
Weep  not  for  them  so  glorious  in  decay, — 
Weep  thou  for  us,  inglorious  and  alive  : 

Stricken  ourselves  in  their  destruction,  till 
That  inward  Saviour  come  we  cannot  kill. .  .  . 


HORACE  HOLLEY  627 

Yet,  longer  dwelling  in  that  ruined  court 
Where  man,  the  stricken  king,  so  ill  does  reign 
I  find  his  folly  wiser  than  report 
And  his  defilement  daughter  of  his  pain. 
He  's  like  a  king  who  never  knew  repose 
But  lives  in  constant  dread  to  be  o'erthrown, 
Buying  a  half-obedience  from  his  foes 
And  half-a-king  to  them  who  would  have  none. 
And  so  his  robe  is  stained,  his  front  dismayed, 
His  court  a  mock,  himself  but  half  a  king ; 
And  so  his  magnanimity  's  arrayed, 
So  foully  gowned,  a  self-impeaching  thing. 
'Tis  so  his  royalty  would  be  a  scorn 
If  it  were  not  too  piteous  and  forlorn. 

Himself  his  foe  and  bitter  regicide, 

Himself  the  faction  risen  in  his  state, 

Himself  his  spy  and  minister,  to  chide 

Himself  to  wrath,  and  nourish  his  own  hate ; 

Himself  his  fool  that  can  himself  beguile, 

Himself  his  scullion,  foul  to  that  degree, 

Himself  his  beggar,  skilled  in  cunning  wile 

Himself  to  plead  in  his  necessity ; 

Yet  king  withal,  and  proved  by  future  act 

When  all  that  baser  self  he  may  resign, 

Leagued  with  himself  and  firm  in  his  own  pact 

To  live  a  monarch,  noble  in  his  line ! 

A  king  withal,  and  nowise  made  more  clear  : 
His  knavish  self  his  lordly  self  does  fear. 


K 


628 

JOHN  OXENHAM 
Everymaid 

ING'S  Daughter! 
Would'st  thou  be  all  fair, 


Without — within — 
Peerless  and  beautiful, 
A  very  Queen  ? 

Know  then  : — 

Not  as  men  build  unto  the  Silent  One, — 

With  clang  and  clamour, 

Traffic  of  rude  voices, 

Clink  of  steel  on  stone, 

And  din  of  hammer  ; — • 

Not  so  the  temple  of  thy  grace  is  reared. 

But, — in  the  inmost  shrine 

Must  thou  begin, 

And  build  with  care 

A  Holy  Place, 

A  place  unseen, 

Each  stone  a  prayer. 

Then,  having  built, 

Thy  shrine  sweep  bare 

Of  self  and  sin, 

And  all  that  might  demean ; 

And,  with  endeavour, 

Watching  ever,  praying  ever, 

Keep  it  fragrant-sweet,  and  clean  : 

So,  by  God's  grace,  it  be  fit  place, — 

His  Christ  shall  enter  and  shall  dwell  therein. 

Not  as  in  earthly  fane — where  chase 

Of  steel  on  stone  may  strive  to  win 

Some  outward  grace, — 

Thy  temple  face  is  chiselled  from  within. 


629 


JOHN  SPENCER  MUIRHEAD 

Quiet 

THERE  is  a  flame  within  me  that  has  stood 
Unmoved,  untroubled  through  a  mist  of  years, 

Knowing  nor  love  nor  laughter,  hope  nor  fears, 
Nor  foolish  throb  of  ill,  nor  wine  of  good. 
I  feel  no  shadow  of  the  winds  that  brood, 

I  hear  no  whisper  of  a  tide  that  veers, 

I  weave  no  thought  of  passion,  nor  of  tears, 
Unfettered  I  of  time,  of  habitude. 
I  know  no  birth,  I  know  no  death  that  chills ; 

I  fear  no  fate  nor  fashion,  cause  nor  creed, 
I  shall  outdream  the  slumber  of  the  hills, 

I  am  the  bud,  the  flower,  I  the  seed  : 

For  I  do  know  that  in  whate'er  I  see 

I  am  the  part  and  it  the  soul  of  me. 


GERTRUDE  M.  HORT 
The  Paradox 


\ V /HEN  I  have  gained  the  Hill 
VV  Where  beats  the  clear  and  rigid  light  of  God 
Full  on  the  path  by  fearless  comrades  trod  ; 
When  I  have  tuned  to  theirs  my  will  and  word, 
And  by  my  prompting  voice  their  ranks  are  stirred 
To  hail  each  height  with  '  Higher  !   Higher  still ! ' 
That  luring  glow  which  from  the  Valley  streams 
Warns  me  /  am  not  what  my  spirit  seems. 


630  GERTRUDE  M.  HORT 


But  when  my  life  descends 

Into  the  Hollow,  where  no  wild  thoughts  reach, 

And  all  that  lawful  yearning  can  beseech 

Sits  at  my  hearth,  or  in  my  garden  grows ; 

When  I  need  match  no  more  with  noble  foes, 

Nor  share  the  yoke  with  unrelenting  friends, 

That  strange  veiled  star  which  o'er  the  Hill-top  beams, 

Shows  me  /  am  not  what  my  body  dreams ! 


Thanksgiving 


SOME  thank  Thee  that  they  ne'er  were  so  forsaken 
In  dust  of  death,  in  whirling  gulfs  of  shame, 
But  by  one  kindred  soul  their  part  was  taken, 
One  far-off  prayer  vibrated  with  their  name  ! 
I  thank  Thee  too — for  times  no  man  can  number, 
When  I  went  down  the  rayless  stairs  of  Hell, 
And  to  my  comrades,  at  their  feast  or  slumber, 
The  echoes  cried  :   «  All's  well ! ' 


Some  thank  Thee  for  the  stern  and  splendid  vision, 
Of  truth,  that  never  let  them  shrink  or  swerve  ! 
Till  on  their  dearest  dream  they  poured  derision, 
And  broke  the  idols  they  had  sworn  to  serve  ! 
I  thank  Thee  that,  for  me,  some  mystic  terror 
Still  haunts  the  accustomed  shrine,  the  accustomed  way,- 
So,  though  Truth  calls  me  with  the  mouth  of  error, 
I  need  not  disobey  ! 


GERTRUDE  M.  HORT  631 

in 

Some  thank  Thee  for  the  Voice  that  sounds  unbidden, 
Above  the  altar  of  their  sacrifice  ; 
For  that  great  Light  wherein  they  stood  unchidden, 
And  watched,  reflected,  in  each  other's  eyes. 
I  too — for  whom  came  never  word  or  token, 
Whose  prayer  into  a  seeming  Void  descends, 
I  praise  Thee  for  the  trustful  hush  unbroken, 
The  right  of  perfect  friends  ! 


HAROLD  E.  GOAD 
Spring's  Sacrament 

'  1 1  FT  up  your  hearts  !  '   The  holy  dews 

1    *  Asperge  the  woodland  throng ; 
Dawn  after  dawn  the  lark  renews 

His  miracle  of  song ; 
While  taper-like  the  crocus  pricks 

Athwart  the  yearning  sod ; 
The  primrose  lifts  his  golden  pyx, 

And  God  looks  forth  to  God. 

The  symbols  blind,  the  visions  fail, 

Our  souls  strain  out  to  Thee  ; 
Within  the  leaf,  the  light,  the  veil, 

Is  Thy  Felicity. 
O  Heart  of  all  the  world's  desire, 

Breathe  from  around,  above, 
The  mystic  kiss  of  Fire  to  fire 

That  Love  will  yield  to  love  ! 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Abercrombie,  Lascelles,  556. 
A.  E.,  495- 

Alexander,  William,  248. 
Anonymous,  i,  6,  548,  549. 
Arnold,  Sir  Edwin,  266. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  228. 

Bailey,  Philip  James,  209. 

Barker,  Elsa,  602. 

Barlow,  George,  371. 

Barlow;  Jane,  503. 

Bax,  Clifford,  598. 

Beeching,  Henry  Charles,  426. 

Benson,    Arthur    Christopher, 

468. 

Benson,  Robert  Hugh,  517. 
Blackie,  John  Stuart,  169. 
Blake,  William,  89. 
Bourdillon,    Francis    William, 

Bowles,  Fred.  G.,  577. 
Bronte,  Emily,  214. 
Brown,  Thomas  Edward,  258. 
Browning,  Elizabeth    Barrett, 

146. 

Browning,  Robert,  171. 
Buchanan,  Robert,  319. 
Buckton,  Alice  Mary,  585. 
Bunston,  Anna,  589. 
Byrom,  John,  84. 

Carman,  Bliss,  450. 
Carpenter,  Edward,  359. 
Carpenter,  Henry  Bernard,  310. 
Caswall,  Edward,  207. 
Cawein,  Madison  Julius,  477. 
Chesson,  Nora,  579. 
Chesterton,  Gilbert  Keith,  519. 


Childe,  Wilfred  Rowland,  606. 
Clarke,  Amy  K.,  623. 
Clerke,  Ellen  Mary,  309. 
Coleridge,  Mary  Elizabeth,  448. 
Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  126. 
Constable,  Henry,  13. 
Cousins,  James  H.,'584. 
Cowper,  William,  87. 
Craik,  Dinah  Maria  (Mulock), 

250. 
Cranch,     Christopher     Pearse, 

203. 

Crashaw,  Richard,  32. 
Cripps,  Arthur  Shear ly,  510. 
Crowley,  Aleister,  520. 

Daley,  Victor  James,  408. 

Dawson,  William  James,  391. 

Deland,  Margaret,  400. 

De  Vere,  Aubrey  Thomas,  208. 

Dietz,  Ella,  531. 

Dixon,  Richard  Watson,  273. 

Dolben,  Digby  Mackworth,  373. 

Donne,  John,  15. 

Dowden,  Edward,  337. 

Drane,     Augusta     Theodosia, 

240. 
Duclaux,  Agnes  Mary  Frances, 

401. 

E.,  A.,  495- 

Earle,  John  Charles,  508. 
Ellis,  Edwin  J.,  569. 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  137. 

Faber,  Frederick  William,  205. 
Field,  Michael,  555. 
Figgis,  Darrell,  595. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


633 


Fletcher,  Phineas,  19. 
Fraser-Tytler,  Christina  Cather 
ine,  375. 

Goad,  Harold  E.,  631. 
Gore-Booth,  Eva,  581. 
Gosse,  Edmund,  377. 
Gray,  John,  571. 
Greenwell,  Dora,  228. 
Gurney,  Alfred,  568. 

Harvey,  Christopher,  31. 

Havergal,  Francis  Ridley,  285. 

Hawker,  Robert  Stephen,  143. 

Henley,  William  Ernest,  376. 

Herbert,  George,  23. 

Herrick,  Robert,  20. 

Hickey,  Emily  Henrietta,  370. 

Hinkson,  Katherine  Tynan, 
464. 

Holley,  Horace,  626. 

Holmes,  Edmund  Gore  Alex 
ander,  381. 

Hookham,  Paul,  604. 

Hopkins,  Gerard  Manley,  353. 

Hort,  Gertrude  M.,  629. 

Hough  ton,  Lord,  154. 

Housman,  Laurence,  487. 

Ingelow,  Jean,  263. 

King,Harriet  Eleanor  Hamilton, 
312. 

Lampman,  Archibald,  445. 
Le  Gallienne,  Richard,  485. 
Lindsay,  Ruth  Temple,  624. 
Lyall,  Sir  Alfred  Comyn,  283. 

MacDonald,  George,  244. 
Mangan,  James  Clarence,  136. 
Marvell,  Andrew,  54. 
Masefield,  John,  550. 
Mason,  Eugene,  577. 
Meredith,  George,  254. 


Meynell,  Alice,  461. 

Milnes,     Richard     Monckton, 

154- 

Mitchell,  Susan,  582. 
Monro,  Harold,  534. 
Morris,  Sir  Lewis,  269. 
Muirhead,  John  Spencer,  629. 
Myers,      Frederick      William 

Henry,  332. 

Nayadu,  Sarojini,  610- 
Newbolt,  Sir  Henry,  466. 
Newman,  John  Henry,  133. 
Noel,Roden  Berkeley  Wriothes- 

ley,  278. 
Noyes,  Alfred,  536. 

O'Shaughnessy,  Arthur  William 

Edgar,  346. 
Oxenham,    Henry    Nutcombe, 

255- 
Oxenham,  John,  628. 

Palgrave,      Francis      Turner, 

249. 

Patmore,  Coventry,  236. 
Plunkett,  Joseph  Mary,  560. 
Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  153. 
Pope,  Alexander,  84. 
Probyn,  May,  404. 

Quarles,  Francis,  21. 

Rhoades,  James,  323. 
Rodd,  Sir  James  Rennell,  406. 
Rolle,  Richard,  i. 
Rossetti,  Christina,  257. 
Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel,  252. 
Russell,  George  William  ('A. 
E.'),  495- 

Santayana,  George,  469. 
Scott,  William  Bell,  201. 
Sharp,  William,  398. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  128. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Shepherd,  R.  A.  Eric,  613. 
Shorter,  Dora  Sigerson,  501. 
Southwell,  Robert,  n. 
Stephens,  James,  504. 
Swinburne,  Algernon   Charles, 

286. 

Sylvester,  Joshua,  13. 
Symonds,     John     Addington, 

305- 
Symons,  Arthur,  474. 

Tabb,  John  Bannister,  367. 
Taylor,  Rachel  Annand,  546. 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  157. 
Thomas,  Edith  Matilda,  392. 
Thompson,  Francis,  409. 
Traherne,  Thomas,  63. 
Trench,  Herbert,  470. 
Trench,     Richard     Chenevix, 

152. 
Tynan    (Hinkson),   Katherine, 

464. 


Underbill,  Evelyn,  524. 

Vaughan,  Henry,  56. 
Verschoyle,  C.  M.,  613. 

Waddington,  Samuel,  367. 
Waite,  Arthur  Edward,  433. 
Walworth,  Clarence  A.,  564. 
Ward,  Frederick  William  Orde, 

344- 

Wasson,  David  Atwood,  561. 
Watts,  Isaac,  83. 
Weekes,  Charles,  501. 
Whitman,  Walt,  216. 
Wilde,  Oscar,  395. 
Williams,  Sarah,  318. 
Wilmshurst,     Walter      Leslie, 

481. 
Wordsworth,  William,  109. 

Yeats,  William  Butler,  472. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

A  double  debt  he  has  to  pay 133 

A  flame  in  my  heart  is  kindled  by  the  might  of  the  morn's 

pure  breath      .          .         .         .          .          •   7     •         •     381 

A  garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot !    .         .    "     .         .     260 
A  new  world  did  Columbus  find        .....     568 

A  pious  friend  one  day  of  Rabia  asked      .         .         .  154 

A  shape,  like  folded  light,  embodied  air     .         .         .         .     143 

A  voice  in  the  dark  imploring  ......     439 

Again  that  Voice,  which  on  my  listening  ears     .         .         .323 
Age  cannot  reach  me  where  the  veils  of  God      .         .         .     583 
Ah,  Christ,  it  were  enough  to  know  .....     570 

Ah  !  Nature,  would  that  I  before  I  pass    ..         .         .         .278 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole          .         . .        .       84 

All  around  him  Patmos  lies      .         .         .         .         .         .     392 

All  living  creatures'  pain  ......     345 

All  night  by  the  shore    .  .         .         ...         -359 

All  parts  away  for  the  progress  of  souls      .         .         .         .218 

All  sights  and  sounds  of  day  and  year  .         *         .     244 

All  that  began  with  God,  in  God  must  end         .         .         .     306 
All  that  is  broken  shall  be  mended   .         .         .         .         -538 

All  things  are  full  of  God.    Thus  spoke     .         .       ,.         .     169 
All  things  once  are  things  for  ever    .         .         .         .         .156 

Alpha  and  Omega,  God  alone  .         .          .         .         .         -13 

Amid  the  eternal  silences          ......     205 

And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time    .          .         .         .         .108 

And  none  can  truly  worship  but  who  have  .  .  .213 
And  then  I  thought  that  He  whom  we  name  God  .  .  31 1 
And  while  they  talked  and  talked,  and  while  they  sat  .  506 

And  will  they  cast  the  altars  down 463 

Apart,  immutable,  unseen         ......     520 

As  Christ  the  Lord  was  passing  by 448 

As  the  slow  Evening  gather'd  in  her  grey  ....     577 

At  intervals  of  tunes        .......     606 

At  night  in  each  other's  arms  ......     362 

Backward  ! — beyond  this  momentary  woe  .  .  .  334 
Batter  my  heart,  three  person'd  God  ;  for,  you  .  .  -15 
Before  me  grew  the  human  soul  .....  445 
Behind  the  orient  darkness  of  thine  eyes  ....  604 
Beneath  this  world  of  stars  and  flowers  .  .  .  .402 


636  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

Betwixt  the  dawning  and  the  day  it  came          .         .         .  344 

Beyond  ;  beyond  ;  and  yet  again  beyond  !  537 

Blow  gently  over  my  garden    ......  464 

Bright  Queen  of  Heaven  !     Gods  Virgin  Spouse           .         .  61 
But  she,  the  wan  sweet  maiden,  shore  away       .         .         .164 

But  so  deep  the  wild-bee  hummeth  .....  555 

By  one  great  Heart  the  Universe  is  stirred          .         .         .  400 
By  one  pervading  spirit  .         .         .          .         .         .          -113 

By  those  heights  we  dare  to  dare      .....  406 

Calm  soul  of  all  things  !  make  it  mine       ....  232 

Chanting  the  square  deific,  out  of  the  One  advancing,  out  of 

the  sides .                  .                  .                  ...  224 

Christ,  as  a  light     ........  136 

Come,  dear  Heart  ........  530 

Come  down,  O  Christ,  and  help  me  !  reach  thy  hand  .         .  395 

Come,  Hesper,  and  ye  Gods  of  mountain  waters          .          .  378 

Comest  Thou  peaceably,  0  Lord  ?    .         .         .         .         .  488 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime         .....  252 

Could  my  heart  but  see  Creation  as  God  sees  it, — from  within  384 

Creation's  and  Creator's  crowning  good     ....  239 

Darkness  broods  upon  the  temple     .         .         .         .         .250 

Dead  ?    Not  to  thee,  thou  keen  watcher, — not  silent,  not 

viewless,  to  thee       .......     393 

Dear  and  fair  as  Earth  may  be          .         .         .         ...     598 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire    .         .         .         .         .162 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows  .         .          .         .         .15? 

Each  wave  that  breaks  upon  the  strand    .          .         .          .367 

Elder  father,  though  thine  eyes 519 

Elected  Silence,  sing  to  me       .         .         .         .         .         .     353 

En  Soph,  uncomprehended  in  the  thought          .         .         .     350 
Ere  aught  began    ,.         .         .         .         .         .         .         -574 

Even  as  a  bird  sprays  many-coloured  fires          .         .         .     495 
Ev'n  like  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks  .         .         .         .22 

False  life  !  a  foil  and  no  more,  when          ....       63 

Far  in  the  Heavens  my  God  retires 83 

Far  off,  most  secret,  and  inviolate  Rose     ....     473 

Fate,  which  foresaw         .......     230 

Flight  is  but  the  preparative.     The  sight  ....       66 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall      .          .          .         .         .         .162 

For  I  have  learned  .         .......     121 

For  years  I  sought  the  Many  in  the  One    .         .          .         .581 

Fountain  of  Fire  whom  all  divide      .....     471 

Friends  and  loves  we  have  none,  nor  wealth  nor  blessed  abode     551 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  637 

PAGE 

From  age  to  age  in  the  public  place  .....  435 
From  the  Silence  of  Time,  Time's  Silence  borrow  .  .  400 
From  this  hour  I  ordain  myself  loos'd  of  limits  and  imaginary 

lines 216 

From  twig  to  twig  the  spider  weaves  .  .  '  .  -254 
From  wha,t  meek  jewel  seed  .  .  .  .  .  571 

Give  reverence,  0  man,  to  mystery  .         .         .  ^  .     201 

God,  God ! .  L     .         .     147 

God  is  the  sole  and  self -subsistent  one  .  .  .  .211 
God  was,  alone  in  unity.  He  willed  .-.  .  .  .211 
God,  who  made  man  out  of  dust  .....  487 
Good  Friday  in  my  heart !  Fear  and  affright !  .  .  .  449 
Grand  is  the  leisure  of  the  earth  .....  263 
Grand  is  the  seen,  the  light,  to  me — grand  are  the  sky  and 

stars 227 

Grow  old  along  with  me !     ,     .         .         .         .         .         .     194 

Hail,  sacred  Order  of  eternal  Truth  !  ....  207 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name — Halleluiah!  .  .  .  .167 
Happy  those  early  dayes  !  when  I  .  .  .  .  -57 
He  is  made  one  with  Nature  :  there  is  heard  .  .  .  131 
He  stood  there.  Like  the  smoke  .  .  .  .  .  179 
He  who  knows  Love — becomes  Love,  and  his  eyes  .  .  602 
Hear  now,  O  Soul,  the  last  command  of  all  .  .  466 

Hearken,  oh  hearken !  let  your  souls  behind  you  .  .146 
Hemmed  in  by  petty  thoughts  and  petty  things  .  .  387 
Her  feet  are  set  in  darkness — at  Her  feet  .  .  .  .548 

Here  is  the  efflux  of  the  Soul 217 

Here  kneels  my  word,  that  may  not  say  ....  569 
Here  on  this  little  bridge  in  this  warm  day  .  .  .  201 
Here,  Pan,  on  grey  rock  slab  we  set  for  Thee  .  .  .510 
High  stretched  upon  the  swinging  yard  .  .  .  .260 
Himself  his  foe  and  bitter  regicide  .  .  .  .  .627 
His  wide  Hands  fashioned  us  white  grains  and  red  .  .511 
How  like  an  Angel  came  I  down  !  .  .  .  .  -63 
How  shall  I  find  Him,  who  can  be  my  guide  .  .  .  577 

I  am  beloved  of  the  Prince  of  the  garden  of  pleasure  .         .  533 

I  am  that  which  began    .......  286 

I  am  the  God  of  the  sensuous  fire     .         .         .         .         -283 

I  am  the  Reaper     ........  376 

I  am  the  song,  that  rests  upon  the  cloud  ....  501 

I  am  the  spirit  of  all  that  lives 579 

I  am  the  wind  which  breathes  upon  the  sea  i 

I  begin  through  the  grass  once  again  to  be  bound  to  the  Lord  500 


638  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 
I  came  into  the  world  for  love  of  Thee      ....     438 

I  come  in  the  little  things 524 

I  did  not  think,  I  did  not  strive        .....     552 

I  fled  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days          .          .     409 
I  found  full  many  a  hindrance  on  the  road         .          .         .613 
I  found  Thee  in  my  heart,  0  Lord    .         .         .         .         .     340 

I  give  you  the  end  of  a  golden  string         .          .          .         .109 

I  got  me  flowers  to  straw  Thy  way  .         .         .         .  23 

I  had  no  God  but  these  .......     369 

I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  Creation :  I  saw  and  I  spoke  !    1 75 
I  have  seen    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .in 

I  knew,  I  felt,  (perception  unexpressed      .         .         .         .     1 73 

I  know 'tis  but  a  loom  of  land  .         .....     261 

I  like  a  church  ;  I  like  a  cowl  ......     137 

I  missed  him  when  the  sun  began  to  bend         '..         .         .     247 

I  pass  the  vale.     I  breast  the  steep  .....     508 

I  paused  beside  the  cabin  door  and  saw  the  King  of  Kings  at 

play 498 

I  sat  me  down  and  looked  around     .....     504 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night 59 

I  saw  the  Son  of  God  go  by  .         .         .         .     547 

I  saw  the  Sun  at  midnight,  rising  red        ....     560 

I  see  his  blood  upon  the  rose   ......     561 

I  sing  the  Name  which  None  can  say  33 

I  spin,  I  spin,  around,  around  ......     341 

I  stood  among  the  ancient  hills     .  ....     595 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cry'd,  '  No  more ' .         .         .         -3° 
I  think  that  in  the  savour  of  some  flowers          .         .          .613 
I  was  not  with  the  rest  at  play          .....     346 

I  will  arise  and  to  my  Father  go       .....     509 

I  wish  a  greater  knowledge,  then  t'attaine  .  .  .21 
I,  woman,  am  that  wonder -breathing  Rose  .  .  .  603 

If  the  red  slayer  thinks  he  slays 142 

If  there  had  anywhere  appeared  in  space  .  .  .  .152 
If  thou  would'st  hear  the  Nameless,  and  wilt  dive  .  .167 
Imagination — here  the  Power  so  called  .  .  .  .123 

In  childhood's  pride  I  said  to  Thee 610 

In  some  green  bower      .         .         .         .         ...         .124 

In  strenuous  hope  I  wrought    .         .         .         .         .         .236 

In  the  light  of  the  silent  stars  that  shine  on  the  struggling  sea  536 
In  the  secret  Valley  of  Silence  ......  398 

In  the  vaile  of  restles  mynd 6 

In  what  torne  ship  soever  I  embarke  .  .  .  .18 
In  Youth,  when  through  our  veins  runs  fast  .  .  .  408 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  639 

PAGE 

Is  it  the  moved  air  or  the  moving  sound  .  .  .  .253 
Is  not  the  work  done  ?  Nay,  for  still  the  Scars  .  .  493 
It  lies  not  on  the  sunlit  hill 398 

King's  Daughter !  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .     628 

Lay  me  to  sleep  in  sheltering  flame  %    400 

Lead,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom  .         .         .     135 
Leave,  leave,  thy  gadding  thoughts  .....       56 

'  Leave  the  romance  before  the  end  '          .         .         .         -312 
Let  mans  Soule  be  a  Spheare,  and  then,  in  this  .          .       17 

Let  me  come  nearer  Thee         ......     585 

Lies  yet  a  well  of  wonder         ......     503 

Life  of  my  life  !  soul  of  my  inmost  soul !  .         .         .         .     387 

Lift  up  your  heads,  gates  of  my  heart,  unfold    .         .         .     306 
'  Lift  up  your  hearts  ! '  The  holy  dews      .         .         .         -631 
Like  a  tired  lover  I  rest  on  her  bosom       .         .         .         .578 

Like  soundless  summer  lightning  seen  afar          .         .         .     364 
Lo  as  some  bard  on  isles  of  the  Aegean     ....     335 

Lo  here  a  little  volume,  but  great  Book    ....       50 

Lo,  in  the  sanctuaried  East      .         .         .         .         .         .416 

Lo  !  in  the  vigils  of  the  night,  ere  sped     ....     330 

Look,  0  blinded  eyes  and  burning    .         .         .         .          .     332 

Lord  Buddha,  on  thy  lotus-throne    .         .         .         .         .611 

Lord,  I  have  knelt  and  tried  to  pray  to-night     .         .         .     340 
Lord  of  the  grass  and  hill         ......     450 

Lord,  said  a  flying  fish     .         .         .          .          .         .         -452 

Lord,  Thou  art  mine,  and  I  am  Thine        ....       28 

Lord,  when  the  sense  of  thy  sweet  grace   ....       49 

Loud  mockers  in  the  roaring  street  .....     485 

Love  came  to  crave  sweet  love,  if  love  might  be          .          .     367 
Love,  flooding  all  the  creeks  of  my  dry  soul       .         .         .     377 
Love,  thou  art  Absolute  sole  lord     .....       40 

Luf  es  lyf  J>at  lastes  ay,  {>ar  it  in  Criste  es  feste  i 

Mariner,  what  of  the  deep  ?    This  of  the  deep  .         .         .318 
Me  Lord  ?  can'st  thou  mispend        .....       19 

Men  say  the  world  is  full  of  fear  and  hate  .         .         .         .611 

'  Mortals,  that  behold  a  Woman '      .         .         .         .          .419 

My  contemplation  dazzles  in  the  End        .         .         .         .76 

My  genial  spirits  fail    .         .  .         .         .         .         .127 

My  God,  I  heard  this  day         ......       24 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men  .         .         .          .158 

My  heart  did  heave,  and  there  came  forth  '  0  God  ! '  .24 

My  Lord,  my  Love  !  in  pleasant  pain        ....     257 

My  naked  simple  Life  was  I     .         .         .         .         .  71 


640  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

My  sorrow  had  pierced  me  through  ;    it  throbbed  in  my 

heart  like  a  thorn     .......     468 

My  soul  is  like  a  fenced  tower  .         .         .         .  .608 

My  Spectre  around  me  night  and  day        .         .         .  91 

No  coward  soul  is  mine  .......     215 

Not  alone  in  Palestine  those  blessed  Feet  have  trod  .  .  555 
Not  made  with  hands,  its  walls  began  to  climb  .  .  .  309 
Now  God  forbid  that  Faith  be  blind  assent  .  .  .518 

0  beat  and  pause  that  count  the  life  of  man      .          .          .     401 
0  Captain  of  the  wars,  whence  won  Ye  so  great  scars  ?        .     423 
0  chantry  of  the  Cherubim      ......     389 

O  gain  that  lurk'st  ungained  in  all  gain  !  .          .          .         .     424 

0  God,  where  does  this  tend — these  struggling  aims  ?.         .     171 
0  joyes  !  Infinite  sweetnes  !  with  what  flowres  ...       58 
0  life  !  what  letts  thee  from  a  quicke  decease    .         .         .       n 
0  little  lark,  you  need  not  fly  .          .          .          .         .         .     589 

0  living  will  that  shalt  endure  .         .         .         .         .          .163 

0  Lord,  the  Giver  of  my  days  .         .          .         .         .         .269 

0  martyred  Spirit  of  this  helpless  Whole  ....     469 

0  me,  man  of  slack  faith  so  long       .          .         .         .          .226 

0  nectar  !  0  delicious  stream  .         .         .         .       .  .         .80 

0  Power  to  whom  this  earthly  clime          ....     446 

0  somewhere,  somewhere,  God  unknown  ....     337 

0  thou  mysterious  One,  lying  asleep  :  602 

0  Thou  not  made  with  hands  .         ...         .         .         .     249 

0  Thou  that  movest  all,  0  Power     .....     402 

0  tree  of  life,  blissful  tree         ......     426 

0  vast  Rondure,  swimming  in  space  .         .          .         .219 

0  what  am  I  that  the  cold  wind  affrays          •    .         .         .     626 
0  world  invisible,  we  view  thee         .         .         ~.         .         .425 
O  world,  thou  choosest  not  the  better  part  !  469 

O  Yeares  !  and  Age  !  Farewell ......       20 

O'er  boundless  fields  of  night,  lo,  near  and  far    .         .          .     504 
Of  all  great  Nature's  tones  that  sweep       .         .         .         .208 

Of  that  external  scene  which  round  me  lay  .  .  .122 
Oh,  fair  immaculate  rose  of  the  world,  rose  of  my  dream,  my 

Rose !     .         . 399 

Oh  !  little  blade  of  grass 228 

Oh,  tempt  me  not !  I  love  too  well  this  snare  .  .  .491 
Oh,  there  are  moments  in  man's  mortal  years  .  .  .  310 
Oh  where  the  immortal  and  the  mortal  meet  .  .  .371 
Om,  Amitaya !  measure  not  with  words  ....  266 

On  a  rusty  iron  throne 505 

On  the  heights  of  Great  Endeavour  .....     480 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  641 

PAGE 

Once,  long  before  the  birth  of  time,  a  storm       .         .         .     534 
Once,  when  my  heart  was  passion-free      .         .         .         -367 
One  of  the  crowd  went  up  .         .         .         .         .     462 

One  thing  in  all  things  have  I  seen   .....     499 

Only  to  be  twin  elements  of  joy         .         .         .  .     556 

Our  seer,  the  net-mender          ......     470 

Out  of  the  depths  of  the  Infinite  Being  eternal  .          .         .     531 
Out  of  the  seething  cauldron  of  my  woes  .         .         .         .     524 

Over  the  great  city          .......     363 

Pilate  and  Ca'iaphas         .         .         .         .         ..         •     511 

Rose  of  all  Roses,  Rose  of  all  the  World    .         .         .      -  .     472 
Round  holy  Rabia's  suffering  bed     .         .         .         .         .156 

See  how  the  orient  dew 54 

She  moves  in  tumult ;  round  her  lies         ....     517 

Silent  is  the  house  :  all  are  laid  asleep       .         .         .         .214 

Sleep  sleep  old  Sun,  thou  canst  not  have  repast      "    .-  '       .       16 
Slight  as  thou  art,  thou  art  enough  to  hide         .         .         .     461 
Snowflakes  downfloating  from  the  void      ....     482 

So  thin  a  veil  divides       .......     364 

Some  evil  upon  Rabia  fell        .         ...         .         .         .154 

Some  folk  as  can  afford  .......     593 

Some  thank  Thee  that  they  ne'er  were  so  forsaken      .         .     630 
Sometimes,  as  in  the  summer  fields  .....     375 

Sometimes,  I  know  not  why,  nor  how,  nor  whence      .         -391 
Souls  there  be  to  whom  'tis  given     .....     483 

Spirit !  that  dwellest  where      .         .         .         .         .         .     153 

Stars  in  the  heavens  turn         .         .         .         .         .         .     476 

Still  as  great  waters  lying  in  the  West       ....     546 

Still  deep  into  the  West  I  gazed  ;  the  light        .         .         .     337 
Strange,  all-absorbing  Love,  who  gatherest         .         .         .     373 
Strangely,  strangely,  Lord,  this  morning   ....     590 

Such  was  the  Boy — but  for  the  growing  Youth  .         .         .     109 
Summer,  and  noon,  and  a  splendour  of  silence,  felt     .         .     295 
Sunshine  let  it  be  or  frost         ......     450 

Sure  Man  was  born  to  meditate  on  things  .  .         .68 

Sweet  Infancy  !........       68 

Sweetest  Saviour,  if  my  soul     .         .         .         .         .         .26 

Swirl  of  the  river  aflow  to  the  sea     .          .         .         .          .     481 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King  ......       29 

Tell  us,  tell  us,  holy  shepherds          .         .         .         .         •     374 

That  all  things  should  be  mine          .         .  .         -75 

The  altar  tiles  are  under  her  feet      .....     564 

The  angells'  eyes,  whome  veyles  cannot  deceive          .         .       1 1 
The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power  .  128 


642  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

The  body  is  not  bounded  by  its  skin          ....     510 

The  brook  and  road        .         .         .          .          .         .         .124 

The  buried  statue  through  the  marble  gleams  .  .  .  582 
The  city  quakes,  the  earth  is  filled  with  blood  .  .  .  618 

The  desire  of  love,  Joy 398 

The  knowledge  of  God  is  the  wisdom  of  man      .         .         .     209 
The  Lion,  he  prowleth  far  and  near  .....     624 

The  Lord  of  all,  himself  through  all  diffus'd        ...       87 
The  Maiden  caught  me  in  the  wild    .         .         .          .    "     .     104 

The  man  that  hath  great  griefs  I  pity  not .         .         .         .258 

The  Master  said      ........     319 

The  Master  stood  upon  the  mount,  and  taught  .          .         .     228 
The  Mother  sent  me  on  the  holy  quest       ....     582 

The  peaks,  and  the  starlit  skies,  the  deeps  of  the  fathomless 

seas         .         .         .          .          .          .         .         .          .     271 

The  Secret  of  the  World  is  lowly  .  •  .  .  .  .561 

The  Self  is  Peace  :  that  Self  am  I 604 

The  spirit  grows  the  form  for  sdf-expression  .  .  .  280 
The  sun  descending  in  the  west  .....  90 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and  the  plains  161 
The  Vision  of  Christ  that  thou  dost  see  .  .  -94 

The  Western  Road  goes  streaming  out  to  seek  the  cleanly 

wild        .........     527 

The  Woof  that  I  weave  not      .         .         .         .         .         .321 

The  world  is  charged  with  the  grandeur  of  God  .         .     355 

The  world  uprose  as  a  man  to  find  Him    ....     433 

Then  came  Sir  Joseph,  hight,  of  Arimathee        .          .         .     145 
There  are  who,  when  the  bat  on  wing  transverse         .         .     305 
There  came  one  day  a  leper  to  my  door     ....     370 

There  is  a  flame  within  me  that  has  stood          .         .         .     629 
There  is  a  glory  in  the  apple  boughs          .         .         .         -477 
There  is  a  rapture  that  my  soul  desires     ....     242 

There  is  one  Mind,  one  omnipresent  Mind  .         .         .         .126 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream    .          .114 
There  were  no  shadows  till  the  worlds  were  made        .         .     204 
These  Houres,  and  that  which  hovers  o're  my  End     .          .       32 
They  said  :  '  She  dwelleth  in  some  place  apart '          .          .     584 
They  say  there  is  a  hollow,  safe  and  still  .  .         .     285 

This  is  he,  who,  felled  by  foes  .         .         .         .         .         .143 

This  outer  world  is  but  the  pictured  scroll          .         .         .     544 
This  spiritual  Love  acts  not  nor  can  exist .          .         .         .125 

This,  this  is  what  I  love,  and  what  is  this  ?  248 

Thou,  for  whom  words  have  exhausted  their  sweetness        .     588 
Thou  hope  of  all  Humanity      ......     592 

Thou,  so  far,  we  grope  to  grasp  thee  ....  203 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  643 

PAGE 

Thou,  who  didst  wrap  the  cloud no 

Though  the  long  seasons  seem  to  separate          .         .         .581 
Thrice  bless'd  are  they,  who  feel  their  loneliness          .         -133 
Through  the  dark  night  I  wander  on  alone         .         .          .     240 
Through  the  Uncreated  .......     623 

Thus  while  the  days  flew  by,  and  years  passed  on       .         .121 
Thy  God  was  making  hast  into  thy  roofe  ....       32 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air  .         .         .         .         ..        .163 

'Tis  Man's  own  Nature,  which  in  its  own  Life    .         .         .84 
To  every  Form  of  being  is  assigned  .         .         .         .         .112 

To  God,  the  everlasting,  who  abides  .....     307 

To  make  the  Body  and  the  Spirit  one       ....     396 

To  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love      .....       89 

To  my  friend  Butts  I  write      ......     106 

To  see  a  World  in  a  grain  of  sand     .         .         .         .         -105 

To  the  assembled  folk     .         .         .         .  .         .     457 

To  the  elements  it  came  from  ......     233 

To-night  I  tread  the  unsubstantial  way     .         .         .         .522 

Toy -bewitched         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .127 

Trimurti,  Trimurti .         .         .         .         .         .         .          .170 

Truth  is  within  ourselves  ;  it  takes  no  rise  .  .  -173 
Truth,  so  far,  in  my  book  ; — the  truth  which  draws  .  -150 

Under  the  flaming  wings  of  cherubim  ....  342 
Unfold  thy  face,  unmaske  thy  ray 31 

Victim  of  love,  in  manhood's  prime  .....  255 
Visionary  power  attends  the  motions  of  the  viewless  winds  123 

We  are  resolved  into  the  supreme  air        ....     395 

We  know  Thee,  each  in  part 369 

We  of  the  world  who  shuffle  to  our  doom  ....  626 
We  sow  the  glebe,  we  reap  the  corn  .....  148 
We  suffer.  Why  we  suffer, — that  is  hid  .  .  .  -315 
Well-meaning  readers  !  you  that  come  as  friends  .  .  46 
'  What  art  Thou,  dearest  Lord,  and  what  am  I '  .  .  512 

What  do  I  want  of  thee  ? 584 

What  do  you  seek  within,  0  Soul,  my  Brother  ?         .         .     526 
What  domination  of  what  darkness  dies  this  hour      .         .     496 
What  happy,  secret  fountain   ......       62 

What  is  that  beyond  thy  life    .  .          .          .         .     501 

What  is  there  hid  in  the  heart  of  a  rose     .         .         .         .544 

What  is  this  ? 273 

What  is  this  maiden  fair 237 

What  is  this  reverence  in  extreme  delight ....  474 
What  love  I  when  I  love  Thee,  0  my  God  .  .  .248 
What,  0  Eternity 368 


644 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

What  of  the  Night,  0  Watcher  ?       .         .         .         .         .  478 

What  powerful  Spirit  lives  within ! 81 

What 's  that  which,  ere  I  spake,  was  gone          .         .         .  236 

When  all  the  shores  of  knowledge  fade      ....  549 

When  first  thy  Eies  unveil,  give  thy  Soul  leave  .         .         .  59 

When  for  the  thorns  with  which  I  long,  too  long         .         .  55 

When  God  at  first  made  man  ......  28 

When  He  appoints  to  meet  thee,  go  thou  forth  .         .         .  -63 

When  I  am  dead  unto  myself,  and  let       .         .         .         .  246 

When  I  from  life's  unrest  had  earned  the  grace  .         .         .  585 

When  I  have  gained  the  Hill   ......  629 


When  I  was  young  the  days  were  long 

When  our  five-angled  spears,  that  pierced  the  world  . 

When  Rabia  unto  Mekkeh  came       ..... 

When  the  hermit  made  an  end 

When  the  Soul  travails  in  her  Night  Obscure     . 

When  the  storm  was  in  the  sky        ..... 

When  thee  (0  holy  sacrificed  Lambe)         .... 

When  thou  turn'st  away  from  ill      ..... 

When  weight  of  all  the  garner'd  years       .... 

Where  is  the  land  of  Luthany  ...... 

Where  shall  this  self  at  last  find  happiness  ? 
Who  can  blot  out  the  Crosse,  which  th' instrument 

Who  gave  thee,  0  Beauty 

Why  should  I  call  Thee  Lord,  Who  art  my  God  ? 

Wide  fields  of  corn  along  the  valleys  spread 

Wild  air,  world-mothering  air  . 

Wise,  0  heart,  is  the  heart  which  loves  ;  but  what  of  the 

heart  which  refrains 

With  a  measure  of  light  and  a  measure  of  shade 
With  brain  o'erworn,  with  heart  a  summer  clod 
With  tear-dimmed  eyes  I  went  upon  my  way  . 
With  thee  a  moment !  Then  what  dreams  have  play 

With  this  ambiguous  earth 

Would  I  could  win  some  quiet  and  rest,  and  a  little  ease  . 
Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music  I  build 

Yet,  longer  dwelling  in  that  ruined  court  .... 
Yonder  the  veil'd  Musician  sits,  His  feet  .... 
'  You  never  attained  to  Him.'  '  If  to  attain 


465 
528 

155 
165 
547 
404 

13 
245 
343 
4i5 
475 

15 
139 
258 
509 
355 

444 
445 
339 
370 
495 
463 


627 
321 
462 


The  Oxford  book  of  English 
mystical  verse,  compiled  by 
D.H.S.  Nicholson  and 

A.H.S.  Lee 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 


UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY